BARONESS  VON  HUTTEN 


ARABY 


Araby. 


ARABY 


BY 


Baroness    von    Hutten 


Illustrated  by   C.  J.  Budd 


1904 

The   Smart   Set   Publishing   Co. 
New  York        London 


COPYRIGHTED 
March,  1902,  by 
ESS  ESS 
PUBLISHING  CO 


COPYRIGHTED 
1904,  by 
THE  SMART  SET 
PUBLISHING  CO 


First  Printing  in 
MA  RC H 


CONTENTS 

CHAPTER  PAGB 

I.  A  MARMOSET   .       .       .       .       .13 

II.  YELVERTON  is  REMEMBERED       .     21 

III.  OF  ARABY  AND  MRS.  COPELAND.     33 

IV.  IN  THE  STEERAGE  ....     43 
V.    "PADDY" 57 

VI.    Two  ON  DECK 71 

VII.  AT  GIBRALTAR         ....     85 

VIII.    MAL  DE  MER 97 

IX.  ROCK  ISLAND  CURIOSITY       .       .  109 

X.  ARABY  ASKS  A  QUESTION      .       .119 

XI.  LOST  LIBERTY         ....  129 

XII.  CHAMPAGNE  FOR  ONE   .       .       .  143 

XIII.  ADVICE  TO  JOE  C 157 

XIV.  HIGH  WORDS 173 

XV.  FOUNTAIN  CONSULTED   .       .       .  189 

XVI.  AND  THE  LAST                             .  203 


2228507 


"As  a  weed 

Flung  from  the  rock,  on  ocean's  foam  to  sail 
Where'er  the  surge  may  sweep,    the   tempest's   breath 

prevail." 

Byron. 


ILL  US  TRA  TIONS 

"Araby"  -  Frontispiece 

<«O/if     Does  it—  bite?'"       -  Page  23 

"  '  Then  nothing  matters,'  she 
said,  putting  her  arms 
around  his  neck."  Page  81 


Schimmelbusch  .  .  .  wore 
a  checked  silk  handker- 
chief tucked  coquettishly 
in  his  waistcoat."  Page 


'  '  She  was  pale  and  fierce- 
looking,  as  she  sat  hold- 
ing Fluffy  Daddies  on 
her  lap"  -  Page  159 

'  '  '  Once  more  I  tell  you  to  let 

Y  elver  ton  alone.'"     -  Page  185 


I 

A  MARMOSET 

.,  "  A  STRING.  At  one  end  of  the  string 
Fluffy  Daddies,  at  the  other  end  Ar- 
aby!" 

T.  H.  Howard  Bax-Drury  looked 
down  his  long  nose  and  smiled.  Mrs. 
Copeland  looked  up  her  short  nose 
and  smiled,  too.  What  a  difference 
there  is  between  one  smile  and  an- 
other !  Bax-Drury 's  drew  his  thin, 
rather  well-cut  lips  neatly  back  over 
a  row  of  even  white  and  gold  teeth, 
hardly  deranging  his  heavy  mustache. 
Mrs.  Copeland's  smile  was  a  flash,  a 
13 


glimpse,  a  pair  of  dimples,  a  shiver 
of  eyelids — a  thing  over  in  a  second, 
but  long  to  be  remembered. 

They  stood  leaning  on  the  rail, 
behind  them  Genoa,  opalescent  in  a 
sea-mist;  before  them  the  usual  unin- 
teresting crowd  of  fellow-passengers, 
fellow-sufferers  —  worst,  fellow-feeders. 
Coming  by  the  Southern  route  had 
been  a  freak  of  Mrs.  Copeland,  and  a 
minute  before,  as  she  viewed  those 
with  whom  she  was  to  be  thrown  into 
a  certain  amount  of  contact  for  the 
next  ten  days,  she  had  regretted  it. 

"That  man  with  the  duck  compress 
about  his  wrist  is  going  to  sit  opposite 
me,"  she  had  grumbled,  "and  he  eats 
with  his  knife." 


"Ever  seen  him  before?" 

"No;  but  he  eats  with  his  knife. 
And  there's  a  woman  who  makes  waxy 
gray  pills  of  her  bread,  and  leaves 
the  table  and  hasn't  the  grace  to  stay 
away,  but  comes  back  pale — bah!" 

Then  Bax-Drury  had  made  the  re- 
mark about  the  string,  Fluffy  Daddies, 
and  Araby,  and  they  both  laughed. 

Araby,  for  her  part,  looked  as  if 
she  never  had  laughed,  never  could 
laugh.  Her  mouth  was  drawn  into  a 
firm  line,  the  corners  deep  cut;  her 
heavy,  straight  brows  hid  half  her  up- 
per lids,  her  soft  hat  half  her  fore- 
head. Fluffy  Daddies  sat  by  her,  his 
scarlet  ribbon  limp  with  the  fog,  his 
hair  out  of  curl. 

15 


"Isn't  she  funny!"  Mrs.  Copeland 
said,  after  a  pause,  during  which  a 
fat  woman  in  a  sweater  photographed 
the  harbor  and  the  city  with  a  six-by- 
six  kodak. 

"Uncommon.  What's  the  row  this 
morning?" 

"You,  me,  Fountain,  the  Lord, 
Fluffy  Daddies — in  a  word,  toute  la 
boutique" 

"I  see!    A  bad  day!" 

"A  bad  day!  Good  heavens,  Baxy, 
look  at  that  man !  What  has  he  in 
his  pocket?"  She  broke  off  excitedly 
and  took  a  few  steps  forward,  her 
hand  on  his  arm. 

"Which  man?  The  bounder  in  the 
bowler?" 

16 


"No,  the  big  man — oh,  his  hat's 
overboard !" 

She  burst  into  a  loud  laugh  of  child- 
ish glee,  and  kept  on  laughing  with 
the  insouciance  of  the  fashionably 
vulgar,  as  the  man  in  question  turned 
and  looked  at  her. 

The  hat  was  gone,  and  the  close- 
cropped  yellow  hair,  yellower  than 
one  often  sees  on  a  man,  looked  very 
striking,  high  up  above  the  other 
heads  in  their  more  or  less  conven- 
tional coverings. 

Bax-Drury  watched  with  lazy  amaze- 
ment the  approach  of  the  hatless  one, 
and  the  leisurely  contemplation  by 
him,  through  his  gold-mounted  single 
glass,  of  Mrs.  Copeland. 
17 


arab? 

"He's  going  to  speak  to  me,"  she 
whispered,  a  husky  excitement  in  her 
voice. 

And  he  did.  "It's  only  a  mar- 
moset," he  said,  stopping,  and  still 
smiling. 

' '  Only  a— what  ?     Your  hat  ?  " 

"Oh,  no;  not  my  hat.  That's  a 
rag  by  this  time.  What  I  have  in  my 
pocket.  I  heard  you  ask."  And  put- 
ting one  hand  in  his  pocket,  he  drew 
out  a  wee,  blinking  monkey,  which 
he  held  out  for  Mrs.  Copeland's  in- 
spection. 


18 


"Journeys  end  in  lovers  meeting, 
Every  wise  man's  son  doth  know." 

— Shakespeare. 


ii 

YELVERTON  IS  REMEMBERED 

MRS.  COPELAND  laughed  again,  but 
the  faint  pink  in  her  cheek  deepened 
a  little,  as  Bax-Drury  noticed  with 
amusement.  She  was  used  to  laugh- 
ing when  amused,  and  never  modified 
her  mirth  out  of  consideration  for 
her  fellows;  but  she  had  never  before 
been  met  in  quite  this  way. 

The  yellow-haired  man  was  as  much 
at  his  ease  as  she,  and  stood  holding 
out  the  monkey  with  every  appear- 
ance of  expecting  her  to  take  it. 

"Oh!     Does  it— bite?" 

21 


"Not    often.    He   is  a  vegetarian." 

The  monkey  screwed  up  its  face 
and  gave  a  sudden,  comprehensive 
shiver. 

"He  feels  the  fog.  His  name  is 
Joe  C." 

Mrs.  Copeland  put  out  one  finger 
and  stroked  Joe  C.'s  head,  gingerly. 

Bax-Drury  watched. 

"And  mine,"  went  on  the  yellow- 
haired  man,  "is  Yelverton.  You  seem 
to  have  forgotten." 

Mrs.  Copeland  started,  and  buried 
her  hands  in  the  pockets  of  her  ulster. 

"Good  gracious!    did  I  know  it?" 

"  Evidently  not,  Mrs.  Copeland.  But 
— how  good-natured  of  you  not  to 
snub  me  when  I  came  up  to  you!" 


22 


'Oh!     Does  it— bite T 


Bax-Drury  had  known  her  for  years, 
but  he  had  never  before  seen  her  utter- 
ly at  a  loss.  She  blushed  scarlet,  bit 
her  lips,  and  then,  with  a  helpless 
laugh,  owned  up. 

"I  didn't  know  I'd  ever  seen  you 
before,  but  I  thought  if  you  could  see 
it  through,  I  could — and  then  there 
was  Mr.  Bax-Drury." 

Yelverton  bowed  to  Bax-Drury,  and 
put  the  shivering  Joe  C.  back  in  his 
pocket.  "It  was  going  over  the  Bre- 
men, two  years  ago.  It  snowed  fear- 
fully, and  I  got  your  luggage  through 
at  Kiefstein.  You  were  smuggling  a 
lot  of  old  snuff-boxes." 

"Oh,  yes;  of  course  I  remember. 
How  kind  you  were !  And  we  ate  a 
25 


nasty  veal-and-porky  meal  together 
at  some  horrible  place.  I  wonder," 
she  added,  with  a  sudden  change  of 
tone,  "how  I  happened  to  forget 
you?" 

"Don't  flatter,  Allegra,"  Bax-Drury 
put  in.  "It's  a  bad  habit,  and  it 
grows  on  you." 

Yelverton  laughed.  "I  had  a  beard 
about  two  feet  long  then.  I  was  com- 
ing from  the  Caucasus.  Also,  I  wore 
glasses — inflammation  caused  by  the 
glare  on  the  road.  Ever  been  to  the 
Caucasus?"  He  turned  to  the  other 
man. 

"Yes,  I've  been  most  places." 

"The  snuff-boxes.     Now  what  did  I 

do    with    those   snuff-boxes?"     mused 
26 


Mrs.  Copeland.  "I  remember  showing 
them  to  Anthony  in  Rome,  and  then 
— I'll  be  blessed  if  I  can  remember 
what  became —  Araby,  what  did  I  do 
with  my  snuff-boxes?" 

Araby,  the  frown,  and  Fluffy  Dad- 
dies crossed  the  deck. 
"You  gave  'em  to  the  Duke." 
"Oh,  yes;  so  I  did — the  Duke  of 
Tackleton,"  she  explained  to  Yelver- 
ton.  "He's  my  husband's  cousin — 
very  nice,  but  quite  mad.  His  wife 
ran  away  from  him  because  he  made 
such  awful  faces  at  her  and  insisted 
on  having  garlic  in  all  the  dishes. 
What  did  he  give  me  in  return, 
Araby?" 

Araby    straightened    her    hat,    thus 

27 


revealing  a  strip  of  fine-grained,  white 
forehead. 

"Two  hundred  and  fifty." 

Yelverton  stared,  while  Bax-Drury 
laughed. 

"Two  hundred — oh,  yes.  I  remember. 
I  bet  with  Lorrimer  Bentley  that  the 
Spaniards  wouldn't  get  out  of  that 
harbor — where  was  it?  And  they  did, 
and  I  had  only  fifty,  and  owed  that. 
Let's  go  and  get  something  to  eat. 
Araby,  give  Fluffy  to  Fountain  and 
tell  her  to  make  us  some  Bovril.  Do 
you  like  Bovril,  Mr.  Yelverton?" 

"Bovril  is  my  one  vice.  Will  you 
not  present  me  to  your  friend?" 

"My  cousin,  Miss  Winship;  Mr.  Yel- 
verton." 

28 


Araby  bowed  sulkily,  and  picking  up 
the  dog,  strode  down  the  deck. 

Yelverton  stood  looking  after  her 
for  a  few  seconds,  and  then,  putting 
his  big  hand  to  his  head,  remembered 
the  loss  of  his  hat. 

"I  must  go  and  look  up  a  cap  of 
some  kind.  May  I  join  you  in  a  few 
moments?" 

"Of  course.  We  have  the  captain's 
rooms  on  deck.  Poor  Araby  has  to 
sleep  on  a  sofa-bed  as  wide  as  a  knife- 
blade,  and  there's  a  bust  of  the  Kai- 
ser; but  there  is  at  least  air.  Just 
look  at  that  woman !  Baxy,  did  you 
ever  see  such  a  figure  in  your  life?" 


"A  daughter  of  the  gods,  divinely  tall, 
And  most  divinely  fair." 

— Tennyson. 


in 

OF  ARABY  AND  MRS.   COPELAND 

ARABY'S  eyes,  deep-set  under  the 
heavy  brows,  were  gray-blue,  somber, 
sullen,  tiger  eyes,  with  violet  marks 
under  them.  Her  nose,  straight  and 
short,  had  delicate,  slim,  transparent 
nostrils,  on  one  of  which  was  a  small 
brown  mole.  Her  mouth,  full  in  the 
middle  and  curved  daintily,  was  inter- 
esting, for  it  meant,  or  was  going  to 
mean,  much.  Yelverton  watched  her 
quietly  while  he  flirted  with  Mrs.  Cope- 
land.  He  saw  that  she  was  very 
33 


young,  not  more  than  nineteen;  that 
she  considered  herself  a  disagreeable 
and  bad-tempered  person,  and  that 
she  was  neither  the  one  nor  the  other. 
He  noticed,  with  the  keenness  of  men 
of  his  stamp,  the  curve  under  the  arm, 
at  an  age  when  curves  are  rare,  the 
line  from  the  hip  to  the  knee,  the 
bend  in  the  throat  as  she  turned  her 
head.  Meantime  he  learned  that  the 
party  was  on  its  way  to  Newport, 
where  it  was  to  be  entertained  by 
Mrs.  Knickerbocker  Hare  and  shown 
the  international  race  from  the  deck 
of  the  second  largest  yacht  in  the 
world.  Mr.  Bax-Drury,  Yelverton  was 
informed,  had  a  pot  of  money  on 
the  race,  and  Mrs.  Copeland  herself 
34 


a  few  pounds.  He  learned  that  there 
was  a  Mr.  Copeland,  but  that  he  and 
Mr.  Bax-Drury  didn't  get  on,  and  as 
she  couldn't  get  on  without  Baxy, 
who  was  her  oldest  and  dearest  friend, 
Mr.  Copeland  had  stayed  at  home, 
which  was  much  the  best  place  for 
him.  He  learned  that  Araby  was  the 
daughter  of  Mrs.  Copeland's  mother's 
step-sister,  and  a  very  decent  sort — 
not  as  bad  as  she  looked.  Araby  had 
no  money,  but  she  lived  with  Mrs. 
Copeland,  who  would  be  a  duchess 
sooner  or  later,  and  it  was  to  be 
hoped  that  some  title-loving  Yankee 
might  marry  her  for  the  sake  of  the 
connection. 

Yelverton     learned    also    that    Mrs. 
35 


Copeland  loved  pearls  and  hated  dia- 
monds; that  she  was  crazy  to  taste 
terrapin  because  it  would  be  so  like 
eating  a  snake;  that  she  liked  sweet 
champagne  and  adored  sausage;  that 
Madame  Lorraine,  of  Regent  Street, 
made  her  clothes,  but  that  she  never 
paid  for  them,  as  the  said  Madame 
Lorraine  charged  outrageously.  He 
learned  that  Mrs.  Copeland  was  really 
thirty-one;  that  she  always  told  the 
truth  about  her  age,  as  she  was  proud 
of  looking  four  years  younger  than 
she  was;  that  she  had  stopped  dyeing 
her  hair  when  it  became  so  common; 
that  she  went  to  Cowes  every  year; 
that  she  hated  hunting,  and  loved 

china  and  small  dogs ;  that  she  flirted, 
36 


atab? 

and  saw  no  earthly  harm  in  it,  as 
she  knew  when  to  draw  the  line;  that 
she  didn't  believe  in  any  church,  but 
said  her  prayers;  that  she  had  no 
children;  that  she  loved  Tosti's  love- 
songs  and  the  "  Symphonic  Pathe- 
tique" ;  and  that,  on  the  whole,  there 
were  worse  sorts  in  England. 

Mrs.  Copeland  was  most  communi- 
cative in  her  own  way.  The  second 
day  out  she  even  told  him  Bax-Drury's 
life-history — in  her  own  way.  Accord- 
ing to  her,  Bax-Drury  had  loved  for 
years  a  cousin  of  her  own,  a  Miss 
Phyllis  Cone.  Phyllis  flouted  him,  and 
he  sought  the  plain  joys  of  friend- 
ship with  Mrs.  Copeland,  who  loved 
him  devotedly.  "Of  course,  people 
37 


say  that  he  is  my  lover,  but  he  isn't; 
and  after  all,  it  really  matters  so 
little  what  people  say,  doesn't  it?" 

Yelverton  agreed.  It  mattered  par- 
ticularly little  to  him  what  she  might 
say. 

That  afternoon  he  pumped  Bax- 
Drury  about  Araby.  Bax-Drury  let 
him  pump,  and  told  next  to  nothing. 
Araby  had  no  mother,  which  was  sad 
— a  motherless  girl  was  always  to  be 
pitied;  it  was  very  lucky  for  her  that 
Mrs.  Copeland  liked  her.  Mrs.  Cope- 
land  was  very  charming — oh,  yes,  and 
a  very  good  sort.  And  would  Yelver- 
ton give  him  a  light?  And  would  he 
have  a  whisky  and  soda? 

Yelverton    had    a    very    fine    profile 
38 


and  rather  a  disappointing  full  face. 
Bax-Drury  thought  him  stunning. 
Yelverton  thought  Bax-Drury  clever— 
and  dull. 


39 


"  O  love !  O  fire !  once  he  drew 
With  one  long  kiss  my  whole  soul  through 
My  lips,  as  sunlight  drinketh  dew." 

—Tennyson. 


IV 

IN  THE  STEERAGE 

"WHY  are  you  always  so ?"    Yel- 

verton  hesitated. 

"So  what?" 

"So  savage." 

Araby,  under  the  shadow  of  her 
capuchin,  laughed.  He  had  not  seen 
her  laugh  before,  and  he  drew  a  sharp 
breath. 

"Savage?  Because  I  hate  it  all — 
everything." 

"The  whole  bag  of  tricks?" 

"The  whole  bag  of  tricks." 
43 


arab? 

Yelverton  watched  her  a  few  mo- 
ments in  silence.  They  stood  aft,  look- 
ing down  at  the  steerage,  where  a  man 
had  been  singing  " Marie,  Marie!"  in  a 
tenor  worth  listening  to.  It  was  half- 
past  eight  and  a  clear  night.  Araby 
wore  a  red  silk  blouse  with  an  edging 
of  pink  round  the  collar.  Pink  looked 
Palais-Royal  on  Mrs.  Copeland,  Yel- 
verton reflected,  and  barbarous  on  the 
girl.  She  might,  so  far  as  personality 
went,  be  a  savage  princess  of  some 
southern  island. 

"Did  you  ever  have  a  fan  of  eagle 
feathers?"  he  asked, suddenly,  as  much 
to  his  own  surprise  as  to  hers. 

"Eagle  feathers?     No.    Why?" 

"I  wondered.  It  would  suit  you. 
44 


And  pomegranate  flowers  in  your  hair. 
Who  taught  you  to  wear  your  hair 
in  that  loose  knot?" 

"No  one.  What  queer  things  you 
say." 

He  looked  at  her,  somberly.  "The 
things  I  say  are  nothing  to  the  things 
I-feel." 

Her  face  did  not  change.  It  was 
curiously  immobile  for  so  young  a  face, 
and  yet  Yelverton  knew  that  it  had 
the  power  of  infinite  expression. 

The  man  in  the  steerage  was  singing 
again.  He  sat  on  a  barrel,  one  knee 
drawn  up  to  support  his  guitar.  His 
dark  face  was  thrown  back  in  an 
ecstasy  of  delight  in  his  own  voice. 

"That  fellow  has  a  million  dollars 
45 


in  his  throat,"  said  Schimmelbusch,  a 
poker-playing  passenger  who  talked  to 
every  one,  as  he  passed  by  the  two. 

"Has  he?"  Araby  questioned,  unin- 
terestedly. 

"He's  got  a  high  C  that  Reszke 
ain't  got.  Reszke's  only  a  high  bari- 
tone, anyhow.  That  fellow's  a  tenor." 

"You  seem  to  know  a  lot  about 
most  things,"  said  Yelverton,  rather 
offensively. 

"  You  bet  yer  life  I  know  a  lot  about 
singin'.  I. run  the  Thalia  Music  Hall 
in  Milwaukee.  That  boy '11  be  singin' 
there  next  year,  too." 

Araby  walked  away  without  a  word. 
Schimmelbusch  bored  her.  A  few  min- 
utes later  she  said  to  Yelverton,  "That 
46 


little  girl  in  the    yellow  blouse    is    his 
wife." 

"The  singer's?" 

"Yes.  His  name  is  Gaetano,  and 
hers  is  Carm£.  They  are  Sicilians." 

"How  do  you  know?"  asked  Yelver- 
ton,  surprised. 

"I  watch  them,  and  I  listen.  I  have 
nothing  better  to  do." 

"You  know  Italian?" 

"Yes.  My  nurse  was  an  Italian; 
she  stayed  with  me  until  last  year. 
Allegra  sent  her  away." 

"Why?" 

"Because  she  lied.  As  if  that  made 
any  difference!  I  loved  her." 

Yelverton  laughed.     "Is  Mrs.   Cope- 
land  such  a  stickler  for  the  truth?" 
47 


The  girl  looked  up  at  him  sharply. 
"In  other  people,  you  mean?  She 
doesn't  lie  any  more  than  the  rest, 
I  suppose." 

"No  doubt.     But  you  don't  lie." 

"No;  because  I'm  not  afraid  of  being 
disagreeable.  Do  you  lie?  I  mean 
outside  lies  of  honor?" 

"Lies  of  honor?" 

"Yes;  lies  about  women.  Every 
man  tells  them,  I  have  heard." 

Yelverton  was  about  to  express  his 
amazement,  when  something  happened 
in  the  steerage. 

The  tenor  was  striking  the  opening 
chords  of  another  song;  the  girl  of 
whom  Araby  had  spoken,  conspicu- 
ous in  her  yellow  blouse,  stood  beside 
48 


him,  nodding  her  head  in  time  to  the 
music  and  smiling.  Suddenly,  as  the 
man's  lips  parted  to  the  first  note,  a 
woman  darted  from  the  crowd.  A 
flash  of  light  fell  swiftly,  a  scream 
rose  above  the  music,  and  the  girl 
in  the  blouse  staggered  and  sank  till 
the  singer  caught  her. 

For  a  little  there  was  uproar.  Wom- 
en shrieked,  men  clamored  wildly,  the 
crowd  swayed  to  and  fro.  But  soon 
the  wounded  girl  was  carried  away, 
and  the  doctor  was  summoned  to  her, 
while  on  the  scene  of  the  tragedy  the 
third  officer  held  the  would-be  murder- 
ess prisoner.  Near  by  stood  the  sing- 
er, staring  blankly  down  on  the  slow- 
spreading  stain  at  his  feet. 
49 


The  prisoner  had  held  a  shawl  drawn 
concealingly  over  her  face.  Now  she 
loosed  it,  and  it  dropped. 

"Carolina!  Thou!"  cried  the  man 
in  horror. 

"As  I  promised  thee,  Gaetano!" 
she  replied,  coldly. 

Her  face,  now  clearly  revealed,  de- 
clared its  story  of  long  suffering,  of 
sorrow  beyond  endurance,  ending  in 
relentless  hate.  Now  her  emotion  was 
veiled  by  the  apathy  of  achievement. 

When  the  captain  appeared  and 
questioned  her  she  made  no  answer, 
but  stood  silent,  drooping.  The  cap- 
tain addressed  the  singer  and  asked 
the  name  of  the  woman. 

"Carolina  Sampestri,  my  wife!" 
5° 


A  hush  of  interest  fell  on  the  crowd. 
But  now  the  woman  spoke.  The  cap- 
tain, unable  to  understand  her  Italian, 
made  a  gesture  of  hopelessness,  but 
Araby,  leaning  over  the  rail,  spoke 
distinctly : 

"If  you  wish,  I  will  translate  to 
you." 

The  captain  nodded,  and  Araby  con- 
tinued : 

"They  stole  her  money — the  wife's 
money — and  ran  away  together  with 
it.  The  girl  was  his  mistress.  The 
wife  wanted  to  kill  her;  she  hopes  she 
has.  She  says  nothing  more." 

The  captain  gave  courteous  thanks 
to  Araby,  and  went  away.  Immedi- 
ately the  prisoner  was  removed,  and 
51 


the  hum  of  many  voices  sounded  once 
more. 

"I  hope  she's  dead!"  said  Araby, 
readjusting  her  capuchin  and  staring 
sullenly  at  the  people  who  had  come 
up  behind  her.  "  Women  are  such 
beasts!" 

Yelverton — the  impression  of  her  be- 
ing a  savage  princess  lost  in  the  wilds 
of  civilization  stronger  than  ever  on 
him — drew  her  hand  through  his  arm 
and  led  her  away. 

"You  think  she  did  right  in  trying 
to  kill  her  rival?" 

"Right?  No,  I  suppose  not.  But 
I'm  glad  she  did  it." 

"Would  you  do  it?" 

Something  in  his  voice  startled  her, 
52 


and  she  turned  away.  "Yes,"  she 
said,  after  a  pause;  "only,  I  should 
have  to  care  a  lot  first." 

"You  could  care  a  lot.  Most  women 
can't,  but  you  could." 

She  turned  and  looked  at  him. 

The  crowd  was  still  aft;  no  one  was 
in  sight.  Yelverton  took  the  girl  in 
his  arms  and  kissed  her. 


"But  love  is  blind,  and  lovers  cannot  see 
The  pretty  follies  that  themselves  commit." 

—Shakespeare. 


v 

" PADDY" 

"JusT   look    at   Araby,    Bax.    What 
can  be  the  matter  with  her?" 

Mrs.     Copeland     set     her    lemonade 
glass    down   beside   her   and    took  up 
her   embroidery.     Her    maid  was  very 
clever    at    embroidery,   and  a  strip  of 
needlework   is    pleasing   to    men,  even 
if  the  work  is  done  behind  the  scenes. 
Bax-Drury   looked    down    the    deck. 
The  matter  with  her?" 
"Why,  yes;  she's  laughing." 
There  was  no  doubt  that  Araby  was 
57 


laughing,  and  what  was  more,  she 
was  laughing  with  Schimmelbusch,  to 
whom  she  had  been  systematically  rude 
ever  since  they  sailed,  four  days  ago. 
Schimmelbusch 's  offensively  good-na- 
tured face  was  red  with  surprised 
pleasure.  He  was  one  of  the  men  who 
look  as  if  they  were  built  of  balls  of 
dough,  each  ball  melting  shapelessly 
into  the  next.  He  used  a  toothpick 
mounted  in  gold ;  he  cleared  his  throat ; 
he  smoked  German  cigars.  Yet  there 
stood  Araby,  smiling  into  his  eyes, 
her  cheeks  pink,  apparently  with  the 
pleasure  of  the  interview. 

"I    have    often  thought  her  a  little 
touched,   and  now  I  am    sure    of  it," 
observed   Bax-Drury,   jerking  his  deer- 
58 


skin  pillow  to  the  small  of  his  back. 
"She  looks  very  pretty  this  morn- 
ing— insanity  and  Schimmelbusch  evi- 
dently agree  with  her." 

"Arabyisnot  pretty,"  returned  Mrs. 
Copeland,  "but  I  sometimes  think  she 
is  going  to  be  a  beauty.  She  has  fea- 
tures, Baxy,  and  features  are  nearly 
extinct  these  days." 

"There's  an  idea,  now!" 

"It's  true.  You  have  a  nose,  but — 
well — "  she  burst  out  laughing — "it's 
hardly  a  feature.  Don't  be  hurt,  but 
it's  more  like  a  limb." 

Bax-Drury  laughed,  lazily.  "You 
are  unpleasant  this  morning,  Allegra. 
Well,  about  your  own  nose,  for  in- 
stance?" 

59 


Mrs.  Copeland  shook  her  head  and 
laid  down  her  work,  in  which  she  had 
been  pricking  holes  with  an  unthreaded 
needle.  "My  nose  is  a  mere  mistake, 
not  to  be  considered.  I  am  pretty, 
but,  as  I  say,  Araby  may  turn  out  a 
beauty." 

"A  beauty  in  disguise." 

"You  can't  see  it  because  she  dis- 
likes you,  but  it's  true.  And  really, 
Baxy,  you  oughtn't  to  be  so  hard  on 
her.  It's  her  idea  of  loyalty — disliking 
you.  She  was  always  fond  of  Anthony." 

Bax-Drury  yawned.  "So  am  I  fond 
of  Anthony,  but  that  doesn't  make  me 
dislike  Araby." 

"All  of  which  is  beside  the  question. 

And  to  go  back  to  our  ba-ba's,  Araby 
60 


is  evidently  flirting  madly  with  poor 
Schimmelbusch.  There  are  hopes  for 
her  yet.  No  woman  can  get  on  now- 
adays without  knowing  how  to  flirt, 
and  up  to  this  she  has  looked  at  men 
exactly  as  if  they  were  trees  —  or 
women." 

Araby  certainly  was  treating  Schim- 
melbusch to  a  series  of  glances  like 
anything  rather  than  those  bestowed 
by  one  woman  on  another.  She  wore 
a  white  duck  blouse,  with  a  leather 
belt  and  a  red  silk  cravat.  Her  cheeks 
were  pink,  her  lips  mobile,  as  she 
talked  to  the  obviously  bewildered 
Teuton-American. 

Two    youths,    both    of   whom    had 

made    pleasant    tentatives    and    been 
61 


ruthlessly  snubbed,  stared  frankly  as 
they  passed.  The  fat  woman,  on  her 
perennial  prowl  with  the  kodak,  hesi- 
tated, aimed  her  weapon,  and  then, 
mindful  of  earlier  witherings,  with- 
drew noiselessly  on  her  round-soled 
feet. 

It  was  eleven  o'clock,  and  the  deck 
was  full  of  horizontal  mortals,  enjoy- 
ing the  lethargy  induced  by  lemonade 
and  cheese  sandwiches.  A  girl  from 
Harbor  Beach,  Michigan,  and  an  aged- 
looking  boy  from  Elizabeth  were  play- 
ing shuffle-board  to  the  strains  of 
"The  Stars  and  Stripes  Forever,"  done 
into  German  by  the  band.  A  girl 
with  a  common-sense  figure  sang  as 

she  walked  up  and  down. 
62 


As  the  march  ended  with  a  crash 
and  a  belated  high  note  from  the 
singer,  Yelverton  came  out  of  the  cabin, 
his  rug  over  his  arm.  He  turned  to  the 
left,  bowing  perfunctorily  to  several 
people,  one  of  whom  was  Araby,  then 
drew  a  chair  up  beside  Mrs.  Cope- 
land. 

" Welcome,  little  stranger!"  said  the 
lady,  holding  up  a  small  white  hand. 
Yelverton  kissed  the  hand,  a  practice 
of  his  since  she  once  lamented,  in  his 
hearing,  the  neglect  of  that  charming 
custom  in  England. 

"I    dreamed   of  you  last  night,"   he 
said,  "but  I  sha'n't  tell  you  the  dream 
before    Mr.    Bax-Drury.       I  am  afraid 
he  might — tell  your  husband." 
63 


"Cheeky  beggar!"  returned  Bax- 
Drury,  laughing.  "  I'll  clear  out.  Either 
of  you  like  a  cocktail?" 

Mrs.  Copeland  ordered  two,  and  set- 
tled back  in  her  chair  with  a  little 
wriggle  of  contentment. 

"I'll  take  off  my  cap,  that  you  may 
enjoy  my  curls,"  Yelverton  went  on, 
reaching  for  Bax-Drury's  pillow.  "  Turn 
this  way,  so  I  can  see  both  of  your 
eyes  at  once." 

She  turned.  "You  are  a  cheeky  beg- 
gar, as  Baxy  says.  Are  you  going  to 
make  love  to  me?" 

"J  am,  as  soon  as  I've  had  a  cock- 
tail— Baxy  having  been  so  obliging  as 
to  clear  out." 

"I  wonder — whether  you  could  make 
64 


arab? 

love?  I  mean,  not  to  me,  but  seri- 
ously." 

Yelverton  had  reason  to  think  he 
could,  and  said  so. 

"How  old  are  you?  And  what  is 
your  first  name?" 

"I  am  thirty-six,  and  my  sponsors 
in  baptism  named  me  Patrick." 

The  steward  brought  the  cocktails, 
and  they  drank  them  leisurely. 

"Then  I  suppose  your  friends  call 
you  Pat?" 

"Pat." 

"I  shall  call  you  Paddy.  Do  you 
mind  ?  I  have  names  for  all  the  people 
I  like — all  the  dear,  sympathetic  souls, 
you  know." 

It  was  not  the  first  time  he  had  been 
65 


dubbed  Paddy,  but  he  said  nothing 
of  this.  The  beauties  of  silence  were 
understood  by  him. 

"Well,  then,  Paddy — you  may  make 
love  to  me." 

And  Yelverton  made  love  to  her — 
the  love  that  is  made  under  the  cir- 
cumstances. 

Schimmelbusch  meantime  passed  with 
Araby,  but  Yelverton 's  eyes  were  fixed 
on  his  empty  glass,  and  he  did  not 
look  up. 

"Araby  is  having  a  fine  flirtation 
this  morning,"  Mrs.  Copeland  said, 
laughing  softly. 

"Surely  you  don't  grudge  her  that?" 

"My  dear  man,  I  never  grudge  any- 
body anything.  I  only  wonder  at  her 
66 


choice.  The  admirable  Schimmelbusch's 
charms  are  not  obvious  to  Allegra's 
little  eye." 

"Allegra's  little  eye  will  please  fix 
itself  on  my  charms.  As  I  was  say- 
ing  " 

And  the  love-making  went  on. 


67 


1  The  flash  and  outbreak  of  a  fiery  mind, 
A  savageness  in  unreclaimed  blood." 

— Shakespeare. 


VI 

TWO  ON  DECK 

YELVERTON  was  determined  not  to 
make  an  ass  of  himself.  His  self-con- 
trol was  as  strong  as  his  passions, 
a  combination  rare  in  man,  and  when 
added  to  a  certain  amount  of  charm, 
nearly  irresistible  to  women  of  deep 
feeling. 

Allegra  Copeland  found  no  man  ir- 
resistible, because  in  her  there  was 
neither  strength  of  will  nor  strength 
of  passion,  and  hence  no  answering 
chords.  She  could  be  mulish,  but  mul- 
71 


ishness  is  not  strength,  as  everyone 
knows  except  the  mulish.  A  four-legged 
mule  plants  his  feet  firmly  and  lowers 
his  ears  and  refuses  to  budge,  because 
it  lies  in  him  sd  to  do.  Even  the  most 
optimistic  of  animal  lovers,  so  insis- 
tent in  the  life  of  to-day,  can  hardly 
assert  that  a  mule  has  a  logical  reason 
for  balking.  And  thus  with  the  great 
run  of  biped  mules.  Anthony  Cope- 
land  had  in  old  days  tried  to  content 
his  wife,  but  soon  gave  it  up  and  re- 
turned into  indifference  and  Sussex, 
where  he  delivered  himself  to  the  study 
of  entomology.  Scientist  as  he  was, 
he  knew  the  world  and  saved  himself 
much  utterly  useless  worry  by  realiz- 
ing that  that  world,  so  limited  of 
72 


late  years,  would  forgive  much  more 
than  T.  H.  Howard  Bax-Drury  to  the 
future  Duchess  of  Tackleton. 

Yelverton,  bent  on  not  being  an  ass, 
called  together  all  the  strength  he  had 
and  made  love  to  the  charming — mule. 

And  Araby  raged.  Yelverton  had 
read  her  aright.  He  knew  that  it 
would  have  been  impossible  for  a  man 
of  his  character  and  experience  to  fall 
in  love  with  a  woman  lacking  passion. 
He  had  fallen  in  love  with  Araby's 
sullen,  dark  face  the  day  he  first  saw 
her;  and  he  knew  that  Araby  was  ca- 
pable of  the  strong  feelings  he  loved. 
She  could  hate,  she  could  love;  doubt- 
less she  could  go  to  the  savage  length 
of  loving  and  hating  the  same  man 
73 


at  the  same  time.  Yet  Yelverton 
flirted  with  Mrs.  Copeland,  and  knew, 
without  looking  up,  every  time  the  girl 
came  near  him. 

He  held  out  all  day.  Then  the  stars 
got  the  better  of  him,  and  he  met  her 
eyes.  After  all,  in  spite  of  the  anger 
and  pride  in  them,  there  was  a  look 
of  childish  bewilderment  that  hurt 
him,  and  he  rose  with  a  sudden  dis- 
regard of  appearances. 

"Come  and  take  a  walk,   Miss " 

he  had  forgotten  her  name.  She  was 
Araby  to  him. 

"Tell  me,"  he  said,  abruptly,  as  they 
fell  in  step,  "why  you  look  so  angr}r." 

"You  know  why  I  look  angry — why 
I  am  angry." 

74 


"No,  I  don't,  my  dear  child,  or  I 
shouldn't  have  asked." 

"Then  I'll  tell  you.  Because  all 
day  you  have  treated  me  like  a  dog." 

This  form  of  savage  directness  rath- 
er embarrassed  him.  "Like  a  dog? 
No;  if  you  had  been  a  dog  I  could 
have  patted  you  and  been  with  you. 
You  wrong  me." 

"Perhaps  I  do.  Your  monkey  is 
treated  kindly  enough.  Where  is  he?" 

"In  my  pocket.    Want  him?" 

"Yes,"  returned  the  girl. 

They  stopped  in  the  light  of  the 
smoking-room  while  the  transfer  from 
his  pocket  to  her  arms  was  made, 
and  Bax-Drury,  seeing  them  from  his 
corner,  came  out,  still  smoking. 
75 


"Where's  Allegra?"  he  asked. 

"In  her  chair,   alone." 

Bax-Drury  laughed.  "Then  I  may 
perhaps  be  allowed  a  few  minutes' 
conversation  with  her?  You  have 
finished,  Yelverton?"  His  manner  was 
that  of  a  rather  nattered,  half-bored 
husband. 

Yelverton,  who  knew  the  manner, 
was  amused  by  it,  and  answered  in 
kind.  "I'm  afraid  I  bore  you  stiff. 
You're  awfully  kind,  Bax-Drury." 

Araby  watched  them. 

"Anthony  is  worth  him  and  her 
and  you,  all  put  together,"  she  said 
as  they  crossed  the  bridge  leading  to 
the  deserted  second-cabin  deck. 

"I  am  convinced  that   Anthony   is, 
76 


of  all  mortals,  the  most  admirable. 
Only,  he  is  not  here.  I  am,  so  please 
be  nice  to  me." 

They  sat  down  on  two  steamer-chairs 
in  the  shadow,  and  he  lighted  a  cigar 
without  asking  her  permission.  He  was 
a  courteous  enough  man  in  the  rude 
way  of  modern  Anglo-Saxons,  but  his 
nerves  were  queer  and  he  forgot. 

"Why  did  you  behave— like  that?" 
went  on  the  girl.  "Tell  me,  what  had 
I  done?" 

"Done?  You?  Nonsense!  If  I  had 
done  as  I  wanted  to,  I'd  have  brought 
you  out  early  this  morning  and  kept 
you  for  myself  all  day." 

"Why  didn't  you?" 

His  cigar  did  not  burn.  He  lighted 
77 


a  match  and  held  it  up  to  her  face. 
"Would  you  have  come?" 

She  looked  unblinking  across  the 
flame.  "You  know  I'd  have  come." 

And  then  the  thought  of  Schimmel- 
busch  came  to  him  like  a  guardian 
angel.  "That's  all  very  well,  "but — 
what  about  Schimmelbusch  ?  " 

"Schimmelbusch?" 

"Yes.  You  were  flirting  like  the 
deuce  with  him  when  I  came  up  this 
morning,  and  this  afternoon  you  and 
he  disappeared." 

"Mr.  Yelverton!" 

He  heard  her  straighten  up  in  her 
excitement.  "You  didn't  think  I  was 
with  that— that  beast?" 

"  Of  course,  that's  just  what  I  did 
78 


think,"   he  answered,   deliberately,  but 
giving  up  the  cigar. 

There  was  a  short  pause.  Then 
she  said,  her  voice  singularly  hoarse : 
"I  will  tell  you  where  I  was.  I  was 
in  my  cabin,  howling !  I  howled  all 
the  afternoon." 

Yelverton  drew  a  deep  breath.      He 
would    not    make    an    ass    of  himself 
•  again.      "And — why  did  you  howl?" 

"Because  you  were— with  Allegra." 

The  flap  of  Yelverton's  chair  fell 
with  a  bang  as  he  rose.  "Then  it  was 
a  misunderstanding  all  around,  wasn't 
it?  I'll  forgive  you  for  flirting  with 
the  alluring  Schimmelbusch  if  you'll 
forgive  me  for — being  with  Allegra." 

She  rose,  too,  and  came  out  into  the 
79 


light.  Her  face  was  as  white  as  stone, 
her  eyes  looked  sunken.  "  Let  us  go 
back;  I  am  tired." 

"Araby!  Hang  it,  you  know  I'd 
rather  be  with  you  than  with  Allegra 
or  anyone  else.  Don't  you?"  He 
spoke  so  rapidly  that  she  hardly  under- 
stood him.  "Don't  you?"  He  took 
her  hand  and  held  it  close,  watching 
life  come  back  to  her  frozen  face. 

And  not  only  life  came,  but  beauty, 
hope,  triumph — and  humility.  "Then 
nothing  matters,"  she  said,  putting  her 
arms  about  his  neck. 

A  minute  later  he  was  alone,  sitting 
on  the  end  of  her  chair,  his  face  in  his 
hands.  He  couldn't  tell  whether  he 

had  been  an  ass  or  a  demi-god. 

80 


'Then  nothing  matters,'  she  said,  putting  her  arms  about  his 

neck. 


"Free  love — free  field — we  love  but  while  we  may. 
The  woods  are  hush'd,  their  music  is  no  more; 
The  leaf  is  dead,  the  yearning  past  away. 
New  leaf,  new  life — the  days  of  frost  are  o'er ; 
New  life,  new  love,  to  suit  the  newer  day; 
New  loves  are  sweet  as  those  that  went  before. 
Free  love — free  field — we  love  but  while  we  may." 

—Tennyson. 


VII 

AT  GIBRALTAR 

La  nuit  porte  conseil— generally  bad. 
Yelverton  woke  with  the  full  convic- 
tion that  there  had  been  little  god- 
like, much  asinine,  about  him  the  pre- 
vious evening.  While  he  dressed  he 
counted  the  women  he  had  loved  with 
his  whole  soul. 

There  were  six,  omitting  the  Cuban 
in  Matanzas,  as  to  whom  he  was  some- 
what doubtful.  They  had  been  dark, 
without  exception.  Brunettes  evidently 
had  some  curious  occult  influence  on 
85 


him.  Most  of  them,  thank  God,  had 
been  married.  It  is  so  much  easier 
to  be  whole-souled  with  those  already 
appropriated.  Araby  was,  unfortu- 
nately, not  married,  but  there  was  no 
earthly  doubt  as  to  her  being  number 
seven.  As  he  brushed  his  hair  he  ac- 
knowledged that  he  was  madly  in  love 
with  her. 

And  she  was  madly  in  love  with 
him.  He  wished  that  she  was  older, 
that  he  knew  something  of  her  way  of 
taking  great  loves.  But  she  was  nine- 
teen and — on  deck,  no  doubt,  lying  in 
wait  for  him. 

At  noon  they  were  due  in  Gibraltar. 
She  had  never  seen  it,  and  was  sure 

to  go  ashore.     He  had  spent  a  month 
86 


there  with  number  four,  and  would 
stay  on  board.  If  it  weren't  for  the 
race  he  would  clear  out  altogether 
at  Gib,  but  he  couldn't  give  up  seeing 
T.  lift  the  cup. 

They  were  dropping  anchor  when  he 
went  up,  Joe  C.  on  his  shoulder.  Joe 
C.,  too,  had  visited  Gibraltar,  and 
now  gibbered  ecstatically  at  the  view. 
Araby  was  nowhere  about,  but  Mrs. 
Copeland  and  Bax-Drury  stood  at  the 
rail,  each  with  a  glass. 

"Go  away,  faithless  one!"  she  said. 
"I  am  watching  for  the  beautiful  hotel 
tout  who  gets  on  here  and  lures  the 
unsuspecting  and  susceptible  female 
to  the  most  awful  hotel  in  the  world. 
Anna  Vanowski  told  me  of  him.  He  is 
87 


the  handsomest  man  she  ever  saw — 
and  that's  saying  a  great  deal." 

"Do  you  know  Anna  Vanowski?" 
asked  Yelverton,  faintly.  Anna  Van- 
owski was  number  six,  a  rose  of  yester- 
day. 

"Know  her?  Well,  I  should  rather 
think  I  did,  poor  girl.  Do  you  know 
her,  too?" 

"Slightly.  She  is  very  pretty,  don't 
you  think?" 

"Very,"  returned  Mrs.  Copeland,  flat- 
tered, as  he  meant  her  to  be,  by  this 
subtle  appeal  to  her  vanity. 

"She's  been  in  Switzerland  this  sum- 
mer with  an  aunt,  and  I  rather  fancy 
she  had  some  thrilling  experiences.  In 

fact,  I  know  she  had.    The  aunt  has  a 
88 


heart,  and  can't  walk  a  step,  so  Anna 
has  to  go  about  alone." 

"I  see."  What  he  saw  was  Anna 
Vanowski's  dark  face  against  a  back- 
ground of  vivid-green  leaves,  the  back 
of  Anna  Vanowski's  neck  in  a  low 
gown,  the  curve  of  Anna  Vanowski's 
red  mouth.  He  drew  a  long  breath 
and  turned  to  the  view. 

And  then  suddenly  he  realized  that 
Anna  Vanowski's  dark  face  had  been 
leathery,  the  back  of  her  neck  a  bit 
scrawny,  that  she  would  soon  have  a 
mustache — for  Araby  stood  beside  him. 

"Been  seeing  Schimmelbusch,  my 
dear?"  asked  Mrs.  Copeland,  pleas- 
antly, looking  at  the  young  girl  with 
benevolent  eyes. 

89 


"No.  Why?  What  have  I  to  do 
with  Schimmelbusch?" 

"Only  that  you  are  so  radiant,  as 
you  were  yesterday  when  you  were 
with  him.  'Lesbia  hath  a  beaming 
eye,  but  who  can  tell  on  whom  it 
beameth?'  Perhaps  on  you,  if  it 
wasn't  on  the  lovely  Schimmelbusch!" 
She  turned  to  Yelverton,  who  laughed 
and  expressed  a  wish  that  he  might 
have  such  luck. 

Araby  wore  a  blue  gown;  there  were 
two  flames  in  her  cheeks;  her  ej^es, 
from  which  the  cloud  had  lifted,  were 
full  of  something  wonderful.  Oh,  the 
wonder  that  a  woman  with  such  dim- 
ples rarely  laughed ! 

"Are  you  going  ashore?"    Yelverton 
90 


questioned,  determining  to  ask  her 
name  on  the  first  occasion. 

"Oh,  I  forgot  to  tell  you,"  return- 
ed Mrs.  Copeland,  putting  her  glass 
back  in  the  case  and  fastening  the 
strap.  "We  are  all  going — you,  too. 
I've  never  seen  the  galleries,  and  the 
woman  with  the  very  green  black  hair 
tells  me  we  can  get  tea  served  some- 
where." 

"It's  going  to  be  scorching  hot  in 
that  white  dust,"  persisted  Yelverton, 
without  hope.  But  she  paid  no  atten- 
tion to  him,  and  the  health-officer  and 
the  famous  tout  appearing  at  that 
minute,  she  rushed  down  the  deck 
toward  them. 

"Vile    place,    Gib,"     observed    Bax- 
91 


Drury,  and  Yelverton  loved  him  for 
the  saying. 

"  Awful !     And  as  for  the  hotels  ! " 

He  remembered  number  four's  re- 
marks about  the  eggs  at  their  hos- 
telry. Number  four  had  possessed  a 
ready  tongue. 

But  arguments  were  powerless  against 
the  feminine  fiat,  and  they  went  on 
shore,  wandered  through  the  galleries, 
looked  at  Queen  Isabella's  Seat,  picked 
dusty  bluebells  in  the  rocks,  and  left 
untasted  the  infusion  of  ha}r  served 
to  them  at  a  hotel. 

Mrs.  Copeland's  star  was  in  the 
ascendant.  She  met  a  youthful  and 
weary-looking  officer  on  the  way  up, 

whom    she   called  Toodles;  and  he  in 

92 


return  called  her  Lollipop,  a  playful 
corruption  of  her  name.  Toodles  on 
one  side  of  her,  Yelverton  on  the  oth- 
er, she  led  the  way,  followed  by  Bax- 
Drury  and  Araby. 

Araby's  color  had  gone,  but  Yelver- 
ton saw  with  satisfaction  that  she 
believed  him  to  be  wax  in  her  cous- 
in's hands,  a  victim  to  politeness,  and 
therefore  to  be  pitied  as  much  as  her- 
self. Once  in  a  dark  place  he  managed 
to  take  her  hand  for  a  minute.  He 
was  ashamed  of  himself  for  doing  it, 
but  somehow  he  couldn't  help  it. 

They  bought  some  laces,  some  cop- 
pers, and  some  inlaid  boxes.  Yelver- 
ton was  allowed  to  present  Mrs.  Cope- 
land  with  a  souvenir  of  the  day  in  the 
shape  of  a  tortoise-shell  and  lace  fan. 
93 


arab? 

It  is  to  be  hoped  that  she  liked  it,  as 
she  chose  it  herself. 

A  wind  had  come  up  while  they  were 
on  land,  and  the  dirt}'"  little  launch 
bounded  so  that  several  people  were 
sick,  notably  the  fat  woman  with  the 
kodak,  who  wept  and  laid  her  head  on 
Bax-Drury's  arm,  which  afflicting  atten- 
tion he  received  stolidly.  When  they 
reached  the  ship,  word  went  round 
that  Carme,  the  victim  of  the  stab- 
bing affray,  had  died  that  afternoon. 

"Poor  thing!"  said  Araby,  softly, 
her  eyes  full  of  tears. 

Yelverton  stared  at  her.  "I  thought 
you  hoped "  he  began,  but  she  in- 
terrupted him,  laying  her  hand  on  his 
arm,  in  the  crowd. 

"That  was  before!" 

94 


"The  sky  is  changed, — and  such  a  change!     O  night 
And  storm  and  darkness !  ye  are  wondrous  strong, 
Yet  lovely  in  your  strength,  as  is  the  light 
Of  a  dark  eye  in  woman!" 

— Byron. 


VIII 

MAL  DE  MER 

"  HASEL-HUHN  ! "  said  Mrs.  Copeland, 
reading  the  menu,  an  hour  later. 
"What  on  earth  is  * hasel-huhn ' ? " 

The  doctor  smiled  nervously  at  her 
over  his  spectacles.  "It  is  a  baird — 
a  domestic  baird.  We  have  eaten  him 
before." 

"We  have.  We  have  eaten  him  many 
times  before.  He  is  tired  of  being 
eaten.  He  is  growing  old,  very  old." 

The  doctor  was  troubled.  "Does  the 
97 


gnadige  Frau,  then,  not  like  him?"  he 
asked  innocently. 

Bax-Drury  answered,  fearing  one  of 
Allegra's  hopeless  impertinences.  "No, 
doctor.  We  don't  care  for  hazel-hen. 
As — ah — a  matter  of  fact,  we  don't 
find  it  quite  right.  It  is  a  little  high, 
don't  you  think?" 

The  doctor,  if  distressed,  was  hun- 
gry, and  partook  of  the  maligned 
bird  with  relish.  He  ate  gravy  with 
his  knife,  but  his  heart  was  excellent. 

Araby  sat  silent.  Her  place  was 
between  Yelverton  and  a  schoolmis- 
tress from  Connecticut,  who  had  been 
all  over  Europe  with  five  hundred 
dollars  and  black-silk  underclothes. 

It  was  very  stuffy  in  the  low-ceiled 
98 


cabin,  for,  as  usual,  all  the  enemies  of 
air  were  placed,  by  some  malign  ingenu- 
ity on  the  part  of  the  head  steward 
next  the  port-holes.  The  band  was 
playing  selections  from  "Die  Fleder- 
maus."  The  third  officer,  at  the  head 
of  the  next  table,  sang  a  few  bars 
from  time  to  time.  A  pleasant  excite- 
ment prevailed,  owing  to  the  death 
of  the  woman  in  the  steerage,  but  the 
ship  was  rocking  ominously  and  several 
chairs  were  empty. 

Yelverton  was  not  hungry;  he  was 
not  a  particularly  good  sailor  and 
dreaded  rough  weather.  No  one  sus- 
pected him  of  this  weakness,  however, 
and  as  the  ship  gave  one  lurch,  caus- 
ing a  discordant  blast  of  dismay  from 
a  French  horn,  he  blessed  his  sunburn. 
99 


Mrs.  Copeland  rose  toward  the  end  of 
the  meal.  "  Pax  vobiscum!"  she  said, 
"my  turn  has  come.  Fresh  air  or 
death!" 

"Poor  Allegra!"  murmured  Araby, 
taking  some  striped  green  and  pink 
ice,  made  in  New  York. 

"  She'll  be  all  right.  She'll  have  some 
champagne,  you  know.  She's  never 
very  bad, "answered  Bax-Drury.  "Even 
in  the  Bay  of  Biscay  she  was  laid  up 
only  about  an  hour."  Seeing  Yelver- 
ton  smile  under  his  mustache  he  added, 
without  moving  a  muscle  of  his  face : 
"Anthony — I  mean  Copeland — was  too 
bad  for  description.  I  don't  believe  he 
uttered  a  word  for  thirty-six  hours  be- 
sides 'My  God!'  lean  hear  him  yet." 


I  00 


The  school-teacher  from  Connecticut 
helped  herself  to  a  large  plateful  of 
almonds.  "I  have  a  gentleman  friend 
who  tried  to  jump  overboard  once, 
in  seasickness." 

"Fancy!"  said  Bax-Drury,  in  his 
most  English  voice,  for  she  was  a  very 
good  woman  who  roused  hatred  on  all 
sides. 

Two  more  women  fled  from  the  room. 

"Let's  go  up,"  said  Yelverton  to 
Araby.  "It's  vilely  stuffy  here,  and 
you  are  pale." 

"I'm  always  pale,"  she  laughed, 
rising,  "but  it  will  be  nice  on  deck." 

As  he  helped  her  upstairs  he  asked 
her,  abruptly:  "What  the  dickens  is 
your  name?" 


IOI 


1  'My  name?  Araby — Arabella,  really; 
but  don't  you  ever  call  me  that." 

"I  mean  your  family  name.  It  is 
absurd,  but  I  don't  know  it." 

She  turned  and  smiled  at  him. 
"Winship.  Do  you  like  it?" 

"I  like  it,  and  you,  and  everything 
about  you,"  he  answered,  in  an  under- 
tone, "and  if  you  look  at  me  like  that 
I'll  kiss  you." 

"Do."  Her  face  was  grave,  her  voice 
deep. 

Yelverton  forgot  the  motion,  he  for- 
got the  old  youth  from  Elizabeth  who 
was  going  down  the  opposite  stairs 
and  watching  him.  "Heavens,  what  a 
woman  you  are!  What  a  woman!" 

"Good     evening,     Mr.     Brannigan," 


102 


called  the  girl,  suddenly,  in  a  high, 
cool  voice.  "Are  you  ill,  that  you 
go  so  slowly,  or  is  it  only  interest  in 
me?" 

Mr.  Brannigan  nearly  broke  his  neck 
in  the  hurry  of  his  descent,  and 
Yelverton  laughed  at  the  evidence  of 
her  unconscious  assimilation  of  smart 
London  cheekiness. 

"  A  regular  Paul  Pry," he  commented, 
as  they  came  out  into  the  cool  even- 
ing air. 

"Yes.  But — well,  you  were  worth 
looking  at  for  a  moment,"  she  re- 
turned, pulling  her  capuchin  over  her 
hair  and  ruffling  it  into  a  soft  disorder 
by  the  act. 

"Was  I?     How  did  I  look?" 
103 


The  steamer  was  turning,  making  for 
the  outside  ocean  as  he  spoke.  It  had 
begun  to  rain;  the  lights  of  the  town 
were  blurred  in  the  gray  darkness. 

Araby  hesitated.  "You  looked — as 
Adam  might  have  looked  when  he 
first  saw  Eve;  as  if  you  had  never 
seen  a  woman  before,  and  as  if— you 
weren't  sure  that  she  wasn't  some- 
thing to  eat." 

"I'm  not.  I'm  not  sure  of — any- 
thing. Araby,  will  you  come  out  to 
the  forward  deck  with  me?" 

"Yes,  when  I've  looked  after  Allegra 
a  bit.  Wait  here." 

He  stood  in  the  blowing  rain  until 
she  came  back.  "It's  pouring.  Do 

you  mind  being  drenched?" 
104 


"Not  I.  Come.  She  had  to  go  to 
bed,  poor  thing.  Fountain  is  with  her." 

They  crossed  the  bridge  and  made 
their  way  cautiously  among  the  cap- 
stans and  coils  of  rope  to  the  peak. 
The  rush  of  the  water  below  them 
made  it  almost  impossible  to  talk, 
and  after  shouting  a  few  moments 
they  were  silent. 

Yelverton  held  her  close  to  his  side, 
her  head  against  his  arm.  Only  once 
he  spoke,  and  then  with  his  face  close 
to  hers.  " Do  you  love  me?"  he  said. 

She  drew  his  head  down  and  almost 
whispered  her  answer,  the  words  fall- 
ing into  his  ear  with  a  curious  distinct- 
ness. "I  love  you  with  every  bit  of 
me.  I  would  die  for  you,  steal  for  you, 


kill  for  you.     This  is  what  I  was  made 
for.     I  have  wondered;   now  I  know." 
He  held    her    closer  and    gazed  into 
the  driving  rain. 


106 


'And  there's  a  lust  no  charm  can  tame 
Of  loudly  publishing  our  neighbor's  shame ; 
On  eagles'  wings  immortal  scandals  fly, 
While  virtuous  actions  are  but  born  to  die." 

— Niphur  Harvey. 


IX 

ROCK  ISLAND  CURIOSITY 

"THERE  is  only  one  consolation; 
the  beastly  storm  is  blowing  us  in  the 
right  direction." 

Mrs.  Copeland  lay  in  her  berth  in  a 
pink  dressing-gown,  and  Araby,  be- 
side her,  held  the  champagne  glass 
until  she  should  feel  up  to  another  sip. 

"Yes.  The  stewardess  says  we'll 
be  in  almost  twelve  hours  ahead  of 
time,"  returned  the  girl,  absently. 

"Many  people  sick?" 

"Oh,    yes;     almost    all    the    women 

109 


and  lots  of  the  men.  Father  O'Brien 
crawled  up  the  day  before  yesterdaj- 
to  see  the  Azores,  but  said  they — 
made  him  sick.  I've  not  seen  him 
since.  The  man  who  has  crossed  sev- 
enteen times  is  perfectly  abject.  The 
deck  isn't  at  all  pleasant,  Allegra ; 
you  needn't  pity  yourself  too  much." 

Mrs.  Copeland  laughed,  faintly.  "I 
know.  What  about  Paddy,  by  the 
way?" 

" Paddy?"    The  girl's  face  hardened. 

"Yelverton.  Gie  me  a  wee  drappie 
— internally,  please." 

"Mr.  Yelverton  is  as  bad  as  the  rest. 
He's  not  been  up  since  we  left  Gibral- 
tar." 

"Years  ago." 


no 


"Years  ago.  Why  did  you  call  him 
Paddy,  Allegra?" 

"Because  that's  my  name  for  him. 
His  name  is  Patrick,  so  what  could 
be  more  natural?" 

"Do  you  mean  you  call  him  Paddy 
to  his  face?" 

"Of  course  I  do.  I'm  not  one  of 
those  people  who  say  things  behind 
people's  backs.  Oh,  give  me  some 
champagne,  and  don't  chatter." 

"I  wasn't  chattering.  Allegra,  the 
sun's  coming  out  and  the  barometer's 
leaping  out  of  its  skin.  It  will  be  fair 
to-morrow." 

"Thank  the  Lord!  It  is  getting 
smoother.  How  do  I  look?" 

Araby  regarded  her  with  attention. 


in 


"You  look  rather  yellow — and  there 
are  bags  under  your  eyes." 

"Oh,  rub  a  little  cold  cream  into 
me,  like  a  dear,  will  you?" 

Araby     massaged    Mrs.     Copeland's 

face  for  half  an  hour,   and  then  went 

> 

to  look  up  Fountain,  who  had  done 
a  great  deal  of  very  audible  dying  in 
the  last  few  days,  and  had  subsisted 
chiefly  on  chocolate. 

Fountain  dispatched  to  her  mis- 
tress, Araby  took  a  walk  with  the 
girl  of  the  common-sense  figure,  and 
learned  what  a  perfectly  elegant  time 
young  ladies  have  in  Rock  Island. 
Araby,  who  did  not  possess  much 
sense  of  humor,  listened  gravely. 

"You'd  ought  to  come  out  there  and 


112 


see  for  yourself,"  the  girl  informed  her, 
cordially.     "The  boys  would  give  you 
a  splendid  time." 
"What  boys  —  your  brothers?"  asked 


"My  brothers!  Heavens,  no!  All 
of  the  fellows,  I  mean.  Say,  your 
sister's  a  widow,  isn't  she?" 

"She's  my  cousin.  I  suppose  you 
mean  Mrs.  Copeland.  No,  she's  not 
a  widow.  Do  you  know  what  time  it 
is?"  she  added,  hastily. 

"After  five,  some  time.  I  thought 
she  must  be  one.  Or  perhaps  he's 
her  brother,"  she  added,  vague  but 
hopeful. 

"Mr.  Bax-Drury?  You  are  rather 
curious,  aren't  you?" 


The  girl  stared.  "Well,  yes,  I  sup- 
pose I  am.  But  where's  the  harm? 
Is  he?" 

"No;  Mr.  Bax-Drury  is  no  relation." 

"Then  why  in  kingdom  come  is  she 
trailing  round  with  him?" 

Araby  turned  on  her  like  a  tigress, 
and  then  was  silent  for  a  moment. 
She  was  nineteen,  and  the  girl  from 
Rock  Island  was  twenty-three  or  four, 
but  Araby  felt  all  the  bitterness 
of  world-worn  experience  as  she  look- 
ed into  the  unsuspicious  face  beside 
her. 

"We  have  known  him  for  years," 
she  answered,  quietly,  choosing  her 
words,  "and — he  is  a  great  friend  of 

Mr.   Copeland." 

114 


Araby  had  lied  to  spare  that  bony 
face  a  blush. 

The  blush  was  on  her  own  cheeks 
as  the  girl  nodded,  sympathetically. 
"I  see.  You're  in  his  care — sort  of." 

"I  am  going  in  now.  I  am  tired," 
returned  the  younger  girl,  her  voice 
very  kind.  ''Aren't  you  glad  it's  go- 
ing to  clear?" 

The  sun  came  out  only  to  go  down, 
but  it  went  down  in  a  glow  of  deter- 
mined glory,  scattering  the  last  of  the 
clouds  and  bringing  gleams  of  hope 
to  lusterless  eyes. 

Araby  established  Allegra  just  out- 
side the  door,  ordered  her  dinner,  and 
then  started  down-stairs. 

As  she  went  in  Yelverton  came  out. 


"  Good-evening ;  how  are  you?"  he 
asked,  with  a  dumb  show  of  utter 
weakness.  "I  am  a  wreck,  a  poor 
worm."  He  was  embarrassed,  and 
carried  it  off  by  flippancy.  It  is  very 
irritating  to  have  been  seasick  for 
four  days. 

"Come  and  lean  your  head  on  my 
shoulder  and  let  us  mingle  our  tears," 
called  Mrs.  Copeland,  new  life  in  her 
voice.  "  We  will  share  each  other's  sor- 
rows and  extra  dry." 

He  sank  down  by  her,  still  feigning 
the  utmost  helplessness,  kissing  her 
hand. 

Araby  went  down  to  dinner,  gnawing 
her  lip.  There  are  moments  when 

health  is  not  all  in  life. 
116 


''Doubt  them  the  stars  are  fire; 

Doubt  that  the  sun  doth  move; 
Doubt  truth  to  be  a  liar; 
But  never  doubt  I  love." 

— Shakespeare. 


x 

ARABY  ASKS  A  QUESTION 

SCHIMMELBUSCH,  too,  made  his  ap- 
pearance the  next  morning.  The  fat 
woman,  apparently  fatter  than  ever, 
reappeared  in  another  sweater — red, 
this  time — in  which  she  looked  like  a 
peripatetic  tomato.  Tales  were  told, 
notes  compared,  and  the  man  from 
Mars,  had  he  been  there,  and  simple- 
minded,  would  have  believed  that  sea- 
sickness consisted  of  violent  headache 
and  a  lack  of  sea-legs. 

Yelverton    lay  back  in  his  chair  all 


day  and  talked  to  Mrs.  Copeland  and 
Araby.  Once  in  a  while  he  looked  at 
the  girl,  which  was  enough  for  her, 
but  not  for  him.  Something  about 
her  upset  him  as  he  had  never  been 
upset  in  his  life.  He  could  not  see 
her  without  wanting  to  kiss  her.  He 
dared  not  be  alone  with  her.  He 
loved  her,  but  he  had  110  intention 
whatever  of  marking  her.  He  was 
not  the  man  to  make  a  husband.  He 
was  a  grand  amoureux,  and  a  grand 
amoureux  he  believed  himself  destined 
to  die.  Now  it  may  be  possible,  but 
it  certainly  is  not  advisable,  for  a 
grand  amoureux  to  marry.  Yelverton 
knew  that  Araby  transformed  into 
Mrs.  Yelverton  would  pall  on  him 


after  a  certain  length  of  time,  and 
that  was  bound  to  be  hard  on  him 
and  harder  on  her.  He  knew  that 
she  loved  him  in  a  way  that  would 
last.  He  could  trust  her,  he  realized, 
with  a  half-audible  groan,  but  he 
could  not  trust  himself. 

Araby  pitied  him.  She  believed 
that  he  was  too  weak  to  walk; 
she  waited  on  him  and,  he  knew, 
longed  for  the  moment  when  he 
could  take  her  in  his  arms.  Curi- 
ously enough,  this  did  not  bore  or 
irritate  him.  She  was  anything  but 
unmaidenly,  yet  hers  was  a  primi- 
tive, straightforward  maidenliness  that 
charmed  him. 

In  the  afternoon  Mrs.  Copeland  went 

121 


in  for  a.  nap,  and  Araby  and  Yelver- 
ton  were  comparatively  alone. 

"I  wish  I  could  put  your  head  on 
my  shoulder  and  rest  it,"  she  said, 
promptly. 

"My  poor  head  would  like  nothing 
better,  but  think  of  the  poor  sensi- 
bilities of  all  these  dear  souls!" 

"Yes.  I  think  Miss  Babbitt  would 
die."  Miss  Babbitt  was  the  girl  from 
Rock  Island.  Araby  laughed  as  she 
spoke.  "She  believes,"  she  went  on, 
nibbling  a  bit  of  candied  ginger,  "that 
Allegra  and  I  are  traveling  in  Bax- 
Drury's  care.  First  she  thought  he 
was  her  brother." 

"The  deuce  she  did!" 

"Yes.      She    is    very    simple-minded. 


122 


Patrick,  do  you  wish  I  were  simple- 
minded?" 

She  had  never  called  him  by  this 
name  before,  and  no  one  on  earth  called 
him  Patrick.  He  started. 

"You?  No.  You  are,  in  a  way,  dear 
child,  as  far  as  that's  concerned." 

"But  I  mean  in  her  way,"  insisted 
the  girl. 

Yelverton  shuddered.  "God  forbid 
that  you  should  resemble  the  excellent 
Miss  Babbitt  in  any  way!" 

"I  am  glad.  Still,  it  would  be  nice 
not  to — to  know  things." 

"Ignorance  isn't  innocence,"  plati- 
tudinized  the  man,  at  a  loss. 

"No.      And    knowing    things    hasn't 

hurt  me.      I  know  it  hasn't,  because  I 
123 


hate  it  all.  Oh,  if  you  knew  how  I 
hate  it — the  lies,  the  false  charity, 
the  deliberate  unseeingness !  Do  you 
think  I'd  have  come  at  all,  if  he 
hadn't  asked  me  to?" 

"He?     Who?" 

"Anthony,  of  course.  He  said  I 
was  better  than  no  one,  to — to  keep 
up  appearances.  Anyhow,  I  don't 
think  appearances  matter.  No  one 
minds  what  anyone  else  does,  because 
they  all  do  it  themselves." 

She  was  incoherent,  but  he  under- 
stood, and  sighed.  He  pitied  her  for 
her  poor  little  half-knowledge,  which 
she  believed  so  comprehensive. 

"The  worst  of  it  is,"   the  girl  went 

on,  sucking  the  sugar  off  another  piece 
124 


of  ginger,  and  speaking  as  calmly 
as  if  the  subject  had  been  the  weather, 
"that  I  don't  believe  they  either  of 
them  care  a  straw.  It  has  been  go- 
ing on  for  years,  and  they  are  used  to 
each  other;  that  is  all.  The  girl  in 
the  steerage  that  the  other  one  killed 
was  better  than  she,  in  one  way,  be- 
cause she  did  love  the  man.  She  died 
in  his  arms.  The  doctor  told  me.  It 
made  the  doctor  cry." 

"Ah,  he  looks  rather  tearful,  the 
doctor." 

"Don't  laugh,  dear,"  she  said,  sol- 
emnly. "It  was  a  tragedy.  And  he 
loved  her — I  mean  Gaetano.  He  prom- 
ised to  send  me  the  papers  with  the 
account  of  the  trial.  They  will  let  her 
I25 


off,  the  doctor  says.  They  always  do, 
in  Italy,  for  a  crime  of  passion." 

"Poor  devils!  But  I  thought  you 
were  glad  that  the  wife  arranged  mat- 
ters as  she  did ;  and  here  you  are  pity- 
ing the  other  one!" 

Araby  looked  up  at  him,  that  glow 
in  her  eyes  which  always  bowled  him 
over.  "I  do  pity  her.  What  if  some- 
one should  stab  me,  and  I  had  to 
stop  loving  you." 

"You  won't  stop?"  he  asked,  the 
words  coming  of  themselves. 

"Shall  I  stop?"  That  was  all  she 
said,  but  it  was  enough. 


126 


1  The  moods  of  love  are  like  the  wind ; 
And  none  know  whence  or  why  they  rise." 

— Patmore. 


XI 

LOST  LIBERTY 

THE  next  night  there  was  a  dance. 
The  girl  from  Rock  Island  appeared 
in  a  muslin  frock,  cut  low  and  adorned 
with  rosettes  of  green  ribbon,  in 
which  she  looked,  unfortunately, 
more  sensible  than  ever.  Schimmel- 
busch  was  in  evening  clothes,  and 
wore  a  checked  silk  handkerchief 
tucked  coquettishly  in  his  waistcoat. 
Mrs.  Copeland,  Araby,  Bax-Drury,  and 
Yelverton  sat  together  and  watched 

the  dancing.     Mrs.    Copeland    wore    a 
129 


pink  gown,  and  Araby  yellow.  Yelver- 
ton  had  bought  a  stiff  fan  of  some 
kind  of  quill-feathers,  mounted  in  ivory, 
at  Gibraltar,  and  then  refrained  from 
giving  it  to  the  girl.  When  he  saw 
her  in  the  yellow  gown  he  went  below 
and  fetched  the  fan. 

"  Carry  this,"  he  said,  carelessly, 
thrusting  it  into  her  hand.  "It  suits 
your  gown.  Doesn't  it,  Mrs.  Cope- 
land?" 

Allegra  laughed.  "It  does  more;  it 
looks  like  her  herself,  somehow." 

"Brown  and  stiff,  eh?"  suggested  the 
girl,  laughing.  "Thanks,  Mr.  Yelver- 
ton." 

She  looked  older  to-night.      He  had 

seen  but  little  of  her  all  day,  and  she 
130 


'Schimmelbusch     .     .     .    ivorc  a  checked  silk  handkerchief 
tucked  coquettishly  in  his  waistcoat." 


showed  her  resentment  in  a.  prim, 
grown-up  way.  She  was  good-humor- 
edly  indifferent  to  him,  and  he  hated 
it. 

He  danced  twice  with  Mrs.  Cope- 
land,  and  then  asked  Araby,  who  re- 
fused. 

"May  I  ask  why?" 

She  looked  at  him.  "For  no  par- 
ticular reason — only,  I'd  rather  not." 
And  Schimmelbusch  making  his  bow 
just  then,  she  finished  the  waltz  \vith 
him. 

Yelverton  was  furious.  What  had 
got  into  her?  How  dared  she  treat 
him  in  that  way?  He  put  it  down  to 
childish  caprice,  ignoring  the  fact 
that  under  his  guidance  the  girl  had 


grown  into  a  woman,  with  a  woman's 
instinctive  ruse.  Araby,  seeing  the 
anger  in  his  eyes,  was  delighted,  and 
danced  indiscriminately  with  everyone. 
At  length  Yelverton  could  stand  it  no 
longer,  and  going  up  to  her  said, 
shortly,  "Dance  with  me." 

She  obeyed  without  a  word,  still 
smiling.  The  waltz  was  from  "The 
Singing  Girl."  He  never  forgot  it. 

"How  dared  you  treat  me  that 
way?"  he  whispered. 

"Didn't  you  like  it?" 

"For  a  tuppenny-bit  I'd  punish  you 
this  minute.  You  deserve  it.  Do  you 
know  what  I've  been  enduring?" 

She  looked  into  his  eyes.  "Yes,  I 
know.  That's  wiry  I  did  it.  I  wanted 
134 


you    to    know !       Why    do    you    make 
love  to  Allegra?" 

"Do  you  call  that  making  love?  If 
that  is,  then — this  isn't.  I  can't  get 
you  talked  about.  Don't  you  under- 
stand that?" 

Her  face  darkened.  "  That's  not 
the  reason.  I  don't  believe  you." 

"Then  what  is  the  reason?"  He 
thought  that  perhaps  she  could  tell 
him,  for  he  was  beginning  to  doubt 
whether  there  was  any  reason,  after  all. 

"The  reason  is,  I  think,  that  you 
are  half-sorry  you  love  me.  You  are 
afraid  of  something — afraid  !" 

They  stopped  dancing  as  the  music 
ceased,  and  passed  out  from  the  cur- 
tained space  into  the  open. 


"You  are  right,"  Yelverton  said, 
slowly,  his  hands  in  his  pockets,  his 
head  bent.  "I  am  half-sorry,  and  I 
am  afraid." 

The  girl  watched  him,  the  old  frown 
settling  again  on  her  face,  darkening 
her  eyes. 

"Then — now's  the  time  to  end  it.  I 
suppose,  in  plain  English,  you're  not 
a  marrying  man.  Very  well,  good- 
bye." 

He  was  startled  by  her  measured 
voice,  by  her  curiously  keen  insight. 
She  was  right;  now  was  the  time  to 
end  it.  He  could  be  offended  with 
her  lack  of  faith,  or  he  could  own  up 
frankly.  Which  was  the  better  way? 

In    silence    he    tried    to    decide,    while 
136 


she  stood  and  watched  him.  Either 
might  be  the  better  way,  but  neither 
of  them  was  possible. 

"I  love  you!"  he  said,  suddenly, 
catching  her  head  and  holding  it  to 
his  heart.  "You  are  crazy!" 

"Say  that  again." 

"I  love  you!  You  know  it.  Feel 
my  heart  beat.  I  can't  touch  you 
without  changing  color.  You  are  mine 
and  I  am  yours,  Araby!" 

She  gripped  his  hand,  fiercely.  "I 
wish,"  she  said,  hoarsely,  "that  all 
those  people  were  dead,  that  I  might 
kiss  you — and  kiss  you " 

Schimmelbusch,  with  a  shawl,  was 
an  anti-climax.  Araby  walked  off  with 
him,  without  trusting  herself  to  speak, 


and  Yelverton,  after  a  few  minutes  of 
staring  at  the  stars,  went  back  to  the 
dancing. 

It  was  done,  then.  He,  Pat  Yelver- 
ton, aged  thirty-six,  grand  amoureux 
and  wanderer,  had  engaged  himself 
to  a  miss  of  nineteen.  He  did  not 
consider  her  lack  of  fortune,  though 
he  was  not  rich  himself;  he  thought 
only  of  the  great  fact  that  his  liberty, 
after  numberless  hair-breadth  escapes, 
was  gone.  He  was  not  sorry.  His 
objections  to  a  future  Mrs.  Yelver- 
ton were  gone  with  the  freedom,  and 
he  was  happy.  Only,  he  was  dazed  as 
well. 

In  the  smoking-room,  where  he  went 
for  a  drink,  he  met  Bax-Drury.  "Miss 
138 


Winship  is  an  orphan,  isn't  she?"  he 
asked,  abruptly. 

Bax-Drury  stared.  "No;  worse  luck, 
poor  girl.  Her  father's  mad.  Been 
shut  up  somewhere  for  fifteen  years. 
Thinks  he's  a  mule  and  kicks  every- 
body." 

"Disagreeable  for  his  attendants,  I 
should  say,"  returned  Yelverton,  ab- 
sently. 


139 


"Drink  to-day,  and  drown  all  sorrow; 
You  shall  perhaps  not  do  't  to-morrow." 

—Fletcher. 


XII 

CHAMPAGNE  FOR  ONE 

YELVERTON  sat  down  at  a  table  in  a 
corner  and  ordered  a  cocktail. 

When  he  was  a  child  of  ten  his 
mother  had  married  for  a  second  hus- 
band a  stock-broker  named  Clancy. 
This  man  Clancy  made  a  fortune,  set- 
tled it  on  his  wife,  and  they  bought  a 
home  in  the  country  and  prepared  to 
enjoy  life.  Instead  of  enjoying  life, 
however,  Clancy  went  mad — slowly, 
decorously,  a  trifle  madder  each  day. 
Yelverton  remembered  the  horrors  of 
143 


the  three  years  at  "The  Anchorage," 
before  the  day  when  Clancy  caught 
him  in  his  strong  arms  and  held  him 
out  of  a  second-story  window,  trying 
to  teach  him  to  fly,  the  mother  see- 
ing all  from  the  garden  below. 

"Spread  your  silry  arms,  my  dear, 
and  go  through  the  motions  of  swim- 
ming," the  madman  had  said  to  him, 
kindly  enough,  for  he  was  fond  of  the 
boy.  "When  I  let  go,  you'll  be  off 
like  a  bird!" 

Yelverton  could  feel  the  warm  sum- 
mer breeze  blow  his  hair  back  as 
his  stepfather  swung  him  gently  to  and 
fro,  and  encouraged  him  to  make  the 
attempt.  He  could  see  his  mother's 

rigid     upturned     face,     and     hear     a 
144 


distant  gardener  whistling  over  his 
work. 

He  drank  the  cocktail  absently  and 
ordered  another.  He  rarely  drank, 
and  was  by  taste  a  temperate  man, 
but  this  was  an  occasion,  he  decided, 
when  he  must  get  very  drunk. 

He  remembered  his  mother's  scream 
when,  by  some  strategy,  his  old  nurse 
induced  his  stepfather  to  postpone 
the  flying-lesson,  and  he  was  laid  on 
a  sofa  just  within  the  window. 

A  week  later  Clancy  was  taken  away. 
He  had  never  seen  the  man  again,  as 
the  poor  wretch  killed  himself  before 
the  year  was  out. 

The  smoking-room  was  empty  save 
for  himself.  A  ship  was  passing,  and 


most  of  the  men  were  out  watching 
the  signaling. 

"Look  here,  steward;  bring  me  a 
bottle  of  dry  champagne." 

"Ja  whol,  sir."  The  man  obeyed,  and 
then  he,  too,  went  out  on  deck.  The 
smoking-room  steward  on  an  ocean 
steamer  grows  very  blunted  to  surprise 
over  the  drinking  capacity  of  the  pas- 
sengers. Julius  put  Yelverton  down 
as  making  up  for  the  time  lost  during 
his  two  days'  seasickness. 

Yelverton  remembered  his  mother's 
face  after  her  periodical  visits  to  the 
asylum.  That  face  was  one  of  the 
things  he  could  never  forget.  Then 
came  the  worst.  His  half-brother  was 

born — Cecil,  they  called  him.    Cecil  was 
146 


never  quite  right,  and  the  mother  and 
the  brother  knew  it,  but  never  acknowl- 
edged it  even  to  each  other,  until  the 
day  when  Cecil  set  the  house  on  fire, 
when  he  was  twelve,  by  way  of  cele- 
brating Guy  Fawkes'  Day.  Fire  was  his 
passion.  Twice  he  tried  to  burn  down 
the  house,  and  then,  at  fourteen,  soaked 
his  own  clothes  in  petroleum  and  set 
fire  to  them.  It  killed  his  mother  as 
well,  and  the  tragedy  was  the  direct 
occasion  of  Pat  Yelverton's  first  leaving 
Europe.  He  went  to  India,  and,  join- 
ing an  exploring  party  into  Thibet, 
was  absent  about  two  years.  Coming 
back,  at  the  age  of  thirty,  he  had  met 
Mrs.  Carberry,  the  second  of  his  great 

loves,    and    to    be    near    her    he    had 

147 


wandered  about  through  Europe  and 
America  for  months,  following  her  and 
her  invalid  husband. 

He  poured  out  another  glass  of 
champagne.  It  was  going  to  take  a 
great  deal  to  make  him  as  drunk  as 
he  felt  it  necessary  he  should  be.  His 
hand  was  as  steady,  his  brain  as  clear, 
as  before  the  first  cocktail.  He  had  re- 
trograded a  good  deal  morally  since 
the  days  of  Hilda  Carberry,  but  physic- 
ally he  was  perfectly  fit. 

"I'll  jump  overboard  rather  than 
marry  her,"  he  said,  under  his  breath. 
"  Hereditary  insanity  has  no  charms 
for  me." 

Some  of  the  doctors  had   attributed 

Cecil's  madness,  not    to  heredity,   but 

148 


to  his  mother's  terror  over  the  flying- 
lesson,  and  to  her  general  nervous 
condition  before  his  birth,  but  Yel- 
verton  had  never  believed  this. 

He  sat  for  an  hour  drinking  and 
dreaming,  and  then,  rising,  looked  at 
himself  in  a  mirror.  He  was  pale  and 
looked  ill,  but  he  did  not  look  what 
he  was — drunk. 

The  steward  came  back  and  took 
away  the  bottles  and  glasses,  and  Yel- 
verton  paid  him,  counting  the  change 
deliberately. 

"Solitary  spree,  eh?"  a  man  said 
to  him,  laughing,  as  he  reached  the 
door. 

Yelverton  was  surprised,   for  he  had 

not    seen    the    poker  players  come  in, 
149 


but  he  announced  quietly,  turning 
up  his  collar:  "One  bottle  of  cham- 
pagne. The  other  bottle  someone  left, 
and  that  Dutch  steward  neglected  to 
take  it  away."  Then  he  went  out. 

Mrs.  Copeland  stood  at  her  cabin 
door,  saying  good-night  to  some  people. 
It  was  eleven  o'clock. 

"Come  and  walk,"  Yelverton  began, 
abruptly.  "It  is  too  fine  to  turn  in." 

"I'm  game!"  She  turned  to  the 
open  door  as  the  sleepy  women  left. 
"Araby,  chuck  me  out  a  cloak,  will 
you?  I'm  going  for  a  walk." 

Araby  pulled  back  the  curtain  and 
looked  out  as  she  handed  her  cousin 
the  cloak. 

Yelverton  did  not  look  at  her,  and 


as  he  wrapped  the  shawl  about  the 
older  woman's  bare  shoulders  he  bent 
and  kissed  her  ear. 

"You  beast!"  cried  Mrs.  Copeland, 
dodging  away  and  laughing.  "Are 
you  mad?" 

"Perhaps  I  am.     Come,  let  us  walk." 

Araby  had  seen,  and  he  was  glad. 
He  had  no  conscience,  no  remorse. 
It  had  made  him  glad  to  hurt  the  girl 
who  hurt  him.  Marry  a  woman  with 
a  mad  father?  Not  he!  He  had  had 
enough  of  lunatics  in  his  life. 

They  paced  up  and  down  the  de- 
serted deck.  Mrs.  Copeland  let  her 
cloak  slip  back  on  her  shoulders. 
She  was  very  animated  and  exceed- 
ingly pretty — prettier  by  far  than 


Miss  What's-her-name,  the  girl  with 
the  mad  father. 

A  sailor  turned  off  the  electric  light, 
and  it  was  dark. 

"This  is  vile.  I  can't  see  you," 
Yelverton  said,  and  Mrs.  Copeland 
laughed. 

"When  the  saloon  is  dark  I  must 
go  in.  Araby  would  slay  me.  Poor, 
dear  Araby  is  so  proper." 

"Send  poor,   dear  Araby  to  bed." 

Then  he  told  Mrs.  Copeland  that 
he  loved  her,  that  she  was  driving 
him  mad,  that  he  wished  to  God  he'd 
never  seen  her.  He  did  it  well,  for  it 
was  not  the  first  time. 

Her  manner  was  perfection.  She 
did  not  snub  him  beyond  the  point 
152 


of  peace-making,  for  there  were  still 
three  days  to  New  York,  but  she  told 
him  he  mustn't  talk  that  way.  She 
said  that  she,  at  thirty-one,  was  far 
older  than  he  at  thirty-six;  that  he 
must  find  some  nice  young  girl  and 
marry  her.  By  way  of  encouraging 
him  to  find  the  nice  young  girl,  she 
let  him  kiss  her  once.  And  she  half- 
acknowledged  that  her  life  was  not  all 
roses,  and  that,  perhaps,  had  things 
been  different — which  they  were  not — 
And  then  he  kissed  her  again,  without 
being  allowed. 
He  slept,  without  stirring,  until  noon. 


"But  I  love  you,  sir: 

And  when  a  woman  says  she  loves  a  man, 
The  man  must  hear  her,  though  he  love  her  not." 

— Mrs.  Browning. 


XIII 

ADVICE  TO  JOE  C. 

WHEN  he  came  up  on  deck  about 
four  o'clock  Yelverton  thanked  the 
gods  that  he  had  had  the  courage  to 
offend  Araby  the  night  before,  as  he 
could  not  have  done  it  to-day. 

She  was  pale  and  fierce-looking,  as 
she  sat  holding  Fluffy  Daddies  on  her 
lap — so  pale  and  so  fierce  that  poor 
Yelverton  almost  went  down  on  his 
knees  then  and  there  and  told  her 
that  he  didn't  care  if  all  her  forebears 
had  been  gibbering  idiots — almost, 


but  not  quite.  And  he  had  not  the 
courage  to  go  to  her  and  tell  her  why 
he  wouldn't  marry  her. 

It  was  Thursday,  and  Saturday  they 
would  reach  New  York.  For  that 
length  of  time  he  could  keep  away 
from  her,  and  a  little  wholesome 
anger  on  her  part  would  help  them 
both  to  get  over  it  more  quickly. 
He  hoped  she  would  be  most  unpleas- 
ant— that  would  harden  him.  So  he 
passed  her  with  a  bow,  and  sat  down 
by  Mrs.  Copeland,  who  smiled  sadly 
at  him  and  then  looked  down.  He 
could  keep  away  from  Araby,  but  he 
really  was  not  equal  to  love-making, 
so  he  took  refuge  in  a  very  effective, 
gloomy  silence.  He  was  pale,  and 
158 


'She  was  pale  and  fierce-looking,  as  she  sat  holding  Fluffy 
Daddies  on  her  lap." 


Mrs.  Copeland  enjoyed  his  pallor. 
She  called  him  her  poor  boy,  and  gave 
him  a  powder  to  cure  the  headache. 

"I  didn't  sleep  much  myself,"  she 
admitted,  in  a  low  voice. 

Yelverton  did  not  move  from  his 
chair  until  dinner-time,  and  after  that 
meal,  at  which  the  hasel-huhn  was 
more  reviled  than  ever,  and  the  un- 
happy doctor  was  made  to  confess 
that  they  had  run  short  of  ice  three 
days  before,  he  took  a  walk  with  Mrs. 
Copeland. 

Bax-Drury  watched  them  with  an 
amused  expression  in  his  pale  eyes. 

"  Seems  to  be  rather  bad,  doesn't 
he?"  he  asked  Araby. 

1  'No.       It   looks    to    me    as   though 
161 


she  were  leading  him  on  to  amuse 
herself." 

"That  doesn't  in  the  least  prevent 
his  being  rather  bad,  my  dear." 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  call  me  'my 
dear' !  I'm  not  your  dear,  and  I  hate 
it!"  retorted  the  girl,  furiously. 

Bax-Drury  studied  her.  "What  a 
brute  of  a  temper  you  have !  It'll 
make  you  old  before  your  time.  Look 
at  Allegra,  thirty-one  and  not  a  wrin- 
kle. And  why?  Because  she  never 
was  angry  in  her  life — because  she  has 
no  temper." 

Araby  looked  at  him,  her  face  sud- 
denly calm.  "And  no  heart  and  no 
feelings.  Besides,"  she  went  on,  "she 

has  the  inestimable  advantage  of  pos- 
162 


sessing  you."  Then  she  turned  and 
left  him. 

An  hour  later  Yelverton  found  her, 
coiled  on  a  rug  in  a  dark  corner  of 
the  deck. 

"What  are  you  doing  there?"  he 
asked,  surprised  out  of  his  self-posses- 
sion. 

"I  was  asleep,"  she  lied. 

"Araby — you  have  been  crying."  He 
sat  down  in  a  chair  by  her. 

"I  have  not,"  she  answered,  shortly. 
"I  never  cry.  I  howl  and  shriek  some- 
times. I  wish  you'd  go  away  and 
leave  me." 

He  was  silent.  He  was  tired  out, 
and  afraid  to  speak  lest  he  should  say 

words  he  did  not  wish  to  say. 
163 


"You  must  think  me  &  beast,"  he 
began,  at  length,  lighting  a  cigar. 

She  laughed.  "No,  my  dear  man; 
not  a  beast." 

He  paused,  the  lighted  match,  half- 
burnt  down,  still  in  his  fingers. 

"Then?" 

"Since  you  ask  me,  I  think  you  a 
fool,"  she  returned,  promptly. 

"A  fool!"  He  tossed  away  the 
match  with  a  flirt  of  the  wrist. 

"Yes.  Even  you  can't  resist  Alle- 
gra.  You  love  me,  and  }^et  you  must 
make  love  to  her — because  she  chooses 
to  have  you." 

"So  that  is  it — you  think  I  can't 
resist  Allegra.  At  least,  you  must 

own  that  Allegra  is  very  seductive." 
164 


"But  you  love  me!"  she  sobbed 
suddenly,  rolling  over  and  hiding  her 
face  in  her  arms  as  a  child  does. 
"Me,  me,  me!" 

He  was  glad  she  cried,  for  tears 
made  him  angry.  They  would  stiffen 
his  moral  backbone. 

"If  you're  going  to  howl  and 
scream,"  he  said,  rising,  "I  shall 
clear  out." 

Scraps  of  a  poem  of  Hugo's  came 
into  his  mind  as  she  clasped  him 
about  the  knees,  so  fiercely  as  nearly 
to  throw  him  down — 

Va,  laisse-moi  te  suivre, 

Je  mourrai  du  moins  pres  de  toi; 

Je  serai  ton  esclave  fidele — 

"No,    no;    don't   go!       Don't   leave 

165 


me  alone,  or  I  shall  die.  What  have 
I  done  to  you?  I  have  only  loved 
you!" 

Her  voice  was  not  the  voice  of  a 
child,  childish  as  was  the  action.  It 
was  deep,  rough,  husky,  as  if  it  hurt 
her  throat — such  a  voice  as  the  sav- 
age princess  would  have  had — and 
the  light,  as  she  moved,  fell  on  her 
face. 

"For  God's  sake,  get  up,  Araby!" 
he  said.  "Someone  will  come.  And 
don't — don't  be  so  excited.  After  all, 
I  can't  be  rude  to  your  cousin." 

She  rose  obediently,  and  stood  before 
him  with  quaintly  folded  hands — again 
as  the  savage  princess  might  have 

done  at  a  kind  word  from  her  master. 
166 


"  Forgive  me.  Tell  me  I  am  a  fool, 
and  that  it  is  I  whom  you  love." 

"  You  must  know  that,"  he  answered, 
roughly. 

She  recognized  the  sincerity  of  his 
voice  and  drew  a  deep  breath.  "Then 
it  is  all  right.  Sometimes  I  think  I 
am  going  mad,  when  I  see  you  with 
her." 

He  had  laid  his  arm  across  her 
shoulders,  but,  as  she  spoke,  drew 
back  as  if  she  had  stung  him. 

"What  is  it?" 

"Someone  is  coming.  I'll  go  this 
way."  He  rushed  through  the  nar- 
row passage  to  the  other  side  of  the 
steamer  and  went  below  at  once. 

He  was  behaving  like  a  cad   and  a 

167 


brute,  and  he  knew  it,  yet  lie  could 
do  nothing  else.  He  took  Joe  C.  in 
his  arms  and  sat  for  an  hour  on  the 
edge  of  his  berth,  thinking  and  abus- 
ing himself.  He  loved  the  girl  more 
than  he  had  ever  loved  before,  but  as 
he  could  not  marry  her  there  was  a 
certain  relief  in  the  thought  that, 
after  all,  his  freedom  was  not  gone. 
He  loved  her  for  her  beauty,  her 
strength  of  feeling,  her  firm  char- 
acter, but  fierce  passions  easily  grow 
to  be  manias;  moreover,  they  are 
not  to  be  sought  in  one's  wife.  He 
would  love  her  madly  for  a  year 
or  two ;  then  some  day  he  would 
fall  in  love  with  another  woman, 

and  Araby  would  lead   him  a  horrible 
168 


life;  she  would  be  jealous,  exacting,  in- 
sufferable. 

He  rubbed  Joe  C.  against  his  cheek 
and  groaned.  He  was  not  proud  of 
himself,  and  he  disliked  the  mood, 
for  as  a  rule  he  considered  himself, 
not  without  reason,  rather  a  good 
sort. 

"Never  fall  in  love  with  a  young 
damsel,  Joe,"  he  said  aloud,  as  he 
rose;  "it's  fatal." 


169 


"Nor  jealousy 
Was  understood,  the  injured  lover's  hell." 

—Milton. 


XIV 

HIGH  WORDS 

"WHY  do  you  insist  on  Mr.  Yelver- 
ton's  making  love  to  you?" 

Mrs.  Copeland  looked  up  from  her 
book  and  stared.  "  Insist  on  Mr. 
Yelverton's  making  love  to  me !  My 
dear  child,  you  are  dotty." 

"I  am  not  dotty.  Why  do  you 
want  to  have  every  man  you  meet? 
Why  do  you?" 

"Why  do  the  heathen  rage  and  the 
geese  imagine  vain  things?  You  grow 
rather  vulgar  when  you  are  vehement, 


Araby.  You  know,  I  have  told  you 
that  before." 

Araby  had  gone  at  once  to  the  cabin 
when  Yelverton  had  left  her,  and  with 
the  savage  directness  that  character- 
ized her,  spoke  straight  to  the  point. 

Mrs.  Copeland  had  put  on  a  dress- 
ing-gown and  sat  with  her  high-heeled 
feet  on  the  edge  of  the  divan.  The 
girl  stood  before  her,  her  hands  hang- 
ing by  her  sides. 

"I  don't  care  whether  I'm  vulgar 
or  not.  I  want  you  to  let  Mr.  Yel- 
verton alone." 

"Oho!      So  we  are  to  have  a  scene 

de   jalousie!     Poor    Bax,     I    wish    he 

didn't  have  to  miss    it!"       Then    she 

added,    kindly  enough,  for  she  had  a 

174 


good  heart — of  its  kind:  "Sit  down, 
child,  and  don't  excite  yourself. 
What's  all  this  about  my  Paddy?" 

But  Araby  did  not  sit  down.  "I 
am  not  excited,  and  I  won't  have  you 
call  him  your  Padd}'.  Paddy  is  not 
his  name,  and  he  is  not  yours." 

"You.  are  right;  he's  not  mine. 
Good  old  Anthony  is  mine,  and  no 
other.  As  to  Yelverton,  I  hope  to 
goodness  you  haven't  fallen  in  love 
with  him,  Araby." 

The  girl  was  silent  for  a  minute,  then 
she  sank  into  a  chair,  as  if  too  tired 
to  stand. 

"Yelverton  is  charming,  and,  I 
should  imagine,  a  very  decent  sort," 
went  on  the  older  woman,  "but  he's 


not  a,  man  for  a  girl  to  fall  in  love 
with." 

"Why  isn't  he?" 

Mrs.  Copeland  watched  her  with  a 
certain  amount  of  concern  in  her  blue 
eyes.  Araby  was  queer  and  uncom- 
fortable, but  Araby  was  her  cousin, 
and  useful  as  well. 

"Why?  Because  a  girl  should  never 
fall  in  love  with  a  man  she  can't 
marry." 

"He  isn't  married." 

"Then  you  are  in  love  with  him. 
Poor  little  thing!  Never  mind,  dear, 
we  land  the  day  after  to-morrow,  and 
you'll  see  lots  of  men  at  Newport." 

"I'll    see   him,"    the    girl    answered, 

defiantly. 

176 


"See  Yelverton?  But  he's  not  going 
to  Newport  at  all.  He's  going  to  be  in 
New  York  with  a  lot  of  the  racing  men." 

"He  will  come  to  see  me.  He  loves 
me.  He  is  going  to  marry  me." 

Mrs.  Copeland  stared.  "Yelverton 
loves  you?  My  dear,  don't  you  be- 
lieve it.  What  makes  you  think  he 
does?" 

"He  told  me  so.     He  kissed  me." 

"Then,"  exclaimed  Allegra  Cope- 
land,  rising,  with  a  flash  of  indigna- 
tion in  her  eyes,  "he  is  a  beast,  and 
ought  to  be — tarred  and  feathered ! 
Are  you  sure?" 

The  girl  laughed.  "Am  I  sure?  Am 
I  a  fool?  Of  course  I  am  sure.  And 

— you  needn't  abuse  him." 

177 


"I  don't  wish  to  abuse  him.  It  is 
my  fault,  I  suppose.  Only,  I  am  so 
used  to  having  you  chaperon  me  that 
it  never  occurred  to  me  to  chaperon 
you." 

"I  didn't  need  to  be  chaperoned, 
thanks,"  retorted  Araby,  shortly.  "A 
man  has  a  right  to  love  a  girl,  and  to 
tell  her  so." 

"Oh,  you  idiot!  He  has  the  right 
if  he  means  to  marry  her,  but  not  un- 
less he  does  mean  to.  Yelverton  has 
no  more  idea  of  marrying  you  than  he 
has  of  marrying " 

"You,  perhaps!" 

Mrs.  Copeland  hesitated  for  a  mo- 
ment. She  knew  perfectly  well  that 

Yelverton    was    not    seriously    in    love 

178 


with  her,  but  she  knew,  too,  that  he 
had  no  intention  of  marrying  Araby. 
Had  he  had  such  an  intention  his  tac- 
tics would  have  been  quite  different. 
She  was  distinctly  sorry  for  the  girl, 
in  whom  she  vaguely  felt  there  was  a 
capacity  for  suffering  that  she  herself 
had  not,  and  here  was  a  knife  put 
into  her  hand  by  the  man,  with  which 
she  might  possibly  operate  in  time. 

"  Listen,  Araby,"  she  said,  laying 
her  hand  on  the  girl's  roughened  hair, 
"and  don't  bite  my  head  off.  Yel- 
verton  is  a  very  charming  and  agree- 
able man,  and  I  like  him.  But,  like  a 
great  many  charming  and  agreeable 
men,  he's  a  hopeless  flirt.  He  can't 

help     making    love    to    every    pretty 

179 


woman  he  meets.  Lots  of  men  are 
like  that  —  Bertie  Ailing,  for  instance, 
and  Lord  Carstairs." 

"Bertie  Ailing!" 

"Yes.  Oh,  he  isn't  a  splendid 
blond  giant  like  Pat  Yelverton,  but 
they're  the  same  inside.  Now,  just  to 
prove  to  you  that  I  am  right,  I'll  tell 
you  that  Yelverton  has  been  making 
love  to  me,  too."  She  paused. 

"I  know  it,"  answered  the  girl,  with 
a  laugh.  "Isn't  that  exactly  what 
I  said  in  the  first  place?  He  makes 
love  to  you  because  you  are  prett}^ 
and  attractive,  and  because  —  you  like 
it." 

"I  may  have  an  unregenerate  fond- 
ness for  being  made  love  to,  but  if 


180 


Yelverton  loved  you  he  wouldn't  care 
a  hang  what  I  wanted !  Can't  you 
see  that?" 

"I  can  see  that  he  loves  me,  and 
that  you — tempt  him!" 

Mrs.  Copeland  burst  out  laughing. 
"Tempt  him!  My  dear,  your  lan- 
guage is  something  classic !  You 
make  me  feel  like  Ninon  with  her 
grandson.  Pat  Yelverton  tempted!" 

"Yes,  tempted,"  persisted  the  girl, 
doggedly.  "Perhaps  you  think  I 
don't  know  enough  of  the  world  to 
understand.  Well,  I  do.  He  loves 
me,  and  yet  one  side  of  him  can't  re- 
sist you." 

"Rot!  The  man  makes  love  to  me 
just  as  he'd  make  love  to  any  attrac- 
181 


tive  woman  who  happened  along.  He 
can't  resist  me  because  he  doesn't  try 
— doesn't  want  to.  After  all,  why 
should  he?  I  sha'n't  do  him  any 
harm,  little  woolly  lamb.  He'll  never 
think  of  me  again  when  we've  parted, 
probably  with  a  few  appropriate  tears 
— and  that  is  perfectly  satisfactory. 
Only,  you  would  better  realize  at  once 
that  he'll  never  think  of  you  again, 
either." 

Araby  caught  the  speaker's  arm  with 
both  hands  and  held  it  tight.  "That 
is  not  true !  Not  a  word  of  it !  I 
know;  I've  seen  him  struggle.  He 
loves  me  whether  he  wants  to  or  not, 
and  I  mean  to  have  him.  All  I  ask 

of    you,    Allegra    Copeland,    is    to    let 
182 


him  alone  and  not  work  against 
me." 

"Have  you  no  pride?"  asked  the 
older  woman,  curiously,  watching  her. 

"No;  where  he  is  concerned,  not 
one  bit.  I  will  fight  for  him,  and  I'll 
win  him,  for  the  best  of  him  is  on  my 
side.  If  you  weren't  blinded  by  your 
own  conceit,  you'd  have  noticed  long 
ago  how  his  voice  changes  when  he 
speaks  to  me,  how  his  eyes — "  She 
broke  off,  giving  Mrs.  Copeland's  arm 
a  little  jerk.  "Will  you  let  him  alone 
in  the  future?  You  don't  care  for 
him.  You  have — Bax-Drury.  Will  you 
promise?" 

"I    wish    you'd    go   away  and  leave 

me    in    peace!"    retorted    Mrs.     Cope- 

183 


land,  a  little  crossly.  "You  look  like 
a  perfect  demon,  and  yet  I  can't  help 
being  sorry  for  you.  I  never  heard  a 
girl  talk  so  in  my  life." 

"Will  you  promise?" 

"  I'll  promise  nothing,  and  if  you  have 
any  sense  you'll  forget  all  this  nonsense 
as  soon  as  possible.  Let  go  my  arm  ! " 

Araby  dropped  the  arm  and  stood 
staring  at  the  older  woman  for  a  mo- 
ment. "You're  much  worse  than  that 
poor  girl  the  woman  stabbed.  You 
don't  care  for  anything;  you  couldn't 
if  you  tried.  I  can;  I  can  love  and 
I  can  hate.  Once  more  I  tell  you  to 
let  Yelverton  alone." 

She  turned  away  abruptly  and  went 

out. 

184 


'Once  more  I  tell  you  to  let  Yelverton  alone.'" 


"I  pray  thee  cease  thy  counsel, 
Which  falls  into  mine  ears  as  profitless 
As  water  in  a  sieve." 

— Shakespeare . 


xv 

FOUNTAIN  CONSULTED 

ALLEGRA  COPELAND  had  been  really 
amused  by  Araby's  onslaught,  and 
the  girl's  evident  fear  of  her  charms 
both  flattered  and  surprised  her.  She 
was  vain,  but  she  had  a  sense  of 
humor,  and  knew  perfectly  that  she 
was  no  siren  of  the  gigantic  propor- 
tions attributed  to  her  by  Araby's 
jealous  mind.  She  was  sufficiently 
clear-eyed  to  see  that  Araby  herself 
contained  more  of  the  material  from 

which      modern     sirens     are     made — 
189 


and  the  material  has  changed  since 
Ulysses's  day.  The  modern  siren 
has  no  tail,  and  wears  rather  more 
clothes  than  her  old-fashioned  sister, 
but  she  must  possess  mysticism  and  a 
certain  depth  of  nature.  Arab}7  had 
both,  while  Mrs.  Copeland  considered 
herself,  not  without  reason,  a  very 
attractive  doll.  Bax-Drury's  attach- 
ment had  lasted,  to  be  sure,  but  had 
settled  long  since  into  a  sort  of  mar- 
ried affection,  and  that  Yelverton  was 
not  in  love  with  her  she  knew  quite 
well.  She  had  meant  kindly  in  telling 
her  that  Yelverton  had  made  love 
to  her.  She  believed  in  heroic  treat- 
ment for  heroic  patients.  She  was 

sorry  the  thing  had  happened,  and  de- 
190 


termined  to  avoid  further  trouble. 
Araby's  row  would  be  a  hard  one  to 
hoe  if  the  girl  were  going  to  take  every 
little  flirtation  seriously.  It  was  a 
pity,  for  flirtation,  as  an  art,  is  so 
instructive  and  agreeable. 

As  she  dressed  the  next  morning, 
Mrs.  Copeland  pondered  the  subject 
between  remarks  to  Fountain  and 
fleeting  caresses  bestowed  on  Fluffy 
Daddies,  and  decided  that  everything 
would  turn  out  well — things  always 
did.  Only,  she  wished  there  hadn't 
been  a  look  in  the  girl's  eyes  that 
reminded  her  of  Mrs.  Patrick  Camp- 
bell in  her  tragic  roles.  She  wouldn't 
mention  the  matter  to  Baxy.  He  had 

a  trick  of  scolding  her  once  in  a  while, 
191 


in  a  way  that  good  old  Anthony  never 
ventured  on.  If  Anthony  had  been 
there  she  would  have  told  him. 

" Fountain,"  she  said,  "I've  just 
read  such  a  funny  book!" 

"Indeed,  mum." 

"Yes.  A  man  in  it  makes  love  to 
two  women  at  once — that  is,  to  a 
young  girl  and  to  her  friend,  who  is 
married.  The  girl,  takes  it  seriously 
and — well,  cuts  up  rough." 

"Indeed,  mum."  Fountain  was  af- 
flicted with  a  perennially  red  nose  and 
a  broken  heart.  She  was  not  sympa- 
thetic, but  she  could  dress  hair,  and 
she  never  talked. 

"The  friend — there's  where  I  left  off 

— doesn't    know  what  to  do;   whether 
192 


she  ought  to  speak  to  the  man  or 
ignore  him.  I  wonder  what  she'll  de- 
cide? It  is  a  very  well- written  book." 

" Indeed,  mum."  Fountain,  whose 
one  folly  was  novel-reading,  knew  per- 
fectly that  there  was  no  such  book 
in  the  party,  for  she  had  read  every 
one  there  was,  but  she  said  nothing 
further. 

"I  think  she  will  speak  to  the  man," 
went  on  Mrs.  Copeland,  rubbing  her 
nose  with  a  bit  of  chamois  skin. 
"What  do  you  think?" 

"I  should  say  it  depends  on  her 
character,  mum.  If  she  likes  amuse- 
ment, she  will.  Particularly,  if  he's 
a  fine  man." 

Mrs.  Copeland  laughed.  "Oh,  yes, 
193 


he's  a  fine  man.  You  see,  she  is  puz- 
zled as  to  whether  it  would  be  quite 
fair  to  the  girl." 

"Indeed,  mum." 

Mrs.  Copeland  decided  that  she 
must  really  give  Yelverton  a  piece 
of  her  mind,  and  in  order  to  do  it 
effectively  she  put  on  a  gown  that 
he  did  not  know,  a  rather  demure 
brown  gown,  suitable  to  a  serious 
interview.  It  was  sure  to  be  a  very 
serious  interview. 

She  found  him  with  Joe  C.  in  his 
arms,  reading  "  Reflets  sur  la  Sombre 
Route." 

"I  have  it  in  for  you,  young  man," 
she  began,  frowning  and  smiling  at 

him. 

194 


"For  me?"  He  rose,  pocketed  the 
marmoset  and  Pierre  Loti,  and  gave 
her  his  whole  attention.  "I  think, 
however,  that  I  have  behaved  very 
well." 

"Oh,  do  you?" 

They  had  reached  the  end  of  the 
promenade  deck,  and  now  went  over 
the  bridge  to  the  second  cabin. 

"  Oh,  do  you  ?  "  she  repeated.  ' '  Then 
what  about  Araby?" 

Luckily  for  Yelverton  she  was  in 
front  of  him.  "Araby?"  he  asked. 
"Don't  slip  there.  What  do  you 
mean?" 

"I  mean,  you  wretch,  that  I'm  sorry 
you've  been  making  love  to  her." 

They  found  the  chairs  where  he  and 
195 


the  girl  had  sat  a  few  nights  before, 
and  sat  down.  Yelverton  took  Joe  C. 
from  his  pocket  and  held  him  to  his 
face.  "Did  you  hear  that,  mudder's 
pudgums?" 

"I  never  call  Fluff  mother's  pudg- 
ums!" exclaimed  Mrs.  Copeland,  with 
a  superior  sniff. 

"And  I  never  said  you  did.  So  you 
think  I've  been  making  love  to  Miss 
Winship?  Also  to  the  virgin  from 
Connecticut?"  He  looked  at  her  nar- 
rowly, under  his  cap,  as  he  spoke, 
and  saw  that  she  required  no  emo- 
tionality from  him  at  present.  "And 
I  was  under  the  impression  that  I'd 
been  trying,  in  my  humble  way,  to 

make  love  to  you,"  he  went  on. 
196 


She  laughed.  "  Oh,  me !  Yes,  and 
I  must  in  justice  say  that  you've  done 
it  very  well.  Only,  I'm  in  earnest 
now.  I  suppose  it  never  occurred  to 
your  worship  that  it  was  hardly  fair 
to  whisper  soft  nothings  in  such  a 
youthful  ear?" 

"I'm  being  asked  my  intentions, 
Joseph,"  he  murmured,  confidentially, 
to  the  marmoset. 

"No,  you're  not,"  she  retorted, 
promptly,  "for  no  one  knows  better 
than  I  that  you  have  none.  But  let 
me  tell  you  that  I  think  it  was  rather 
nasty  of  you." 

"May  I  ask  whether  you  confided 
to  Miss  Winship  your  intention  of 

blowing  me  up?"  he  asked,   suddenly, 
197 


plunging  the  marmoset  into  his  pocket 
and  turning  to  her. 

She  was  a  little  frightened,  as  he 
meant  her  to  be.  "No;  certainly 
not." 

"Then  let's  call  it  off.  I've  had 
enough,  and  it  would  surely  be  most 
offensive  to  her.  As  far  as  that's  con- 
cerned, she  strikes  me  as  being  per- 
fectly capable  of  taking  care  of  herself. 
You  may  be  sure  that  if  she  had  found 
me  presuming,  she'd  have  known  how 
to  turn  me  down.*' 

Allegra  was  disappointed.  "I'm  sure 
I  hope  so,"  she  said,  rising,  "and  no 
doubt  I  was  mistaken." 

"No  doubt  you  were.    Shall  we  drink 

the  cocktail  of  peace  together?" 
198 


"No,  thanks.  I  must  look  up  Mr. 
Bax-Drury  and  finish  our  arrange- 
ments about  landing." 

He  looked  down  at  her  with  an 
amused  smile.  "Don't  be  so  fierce. 
When  you  are  fierce  you  are  too — de- 
licious." 

"I  don't  feel  in  the  least  delicious, 
I  assure  you." 

"You  are,  nevertheless,  and  in  one 
minute  I  shall  lose  my  head.  Going, 
going " 


199 


"I  hear  a  voice  you  cannot  hear, 

Which  says  I  must  not  stay; 
I  see  a  hand  you  cannot  see, 
Which  beckons  me  away." 

— Tickell. 


XVI 

AND  THE  LAST 

YELVERTON  passed  a  most  unpleasant 
afternoon.  It  never  occurred  to  him 
that  Mrs.  Copeland's  attack  was  due 
to  anything  more  than  a  formless 
suspicion,  touched  with  a  little  jeal- 
ousy ;  but  it  had  annoyed  him,  and  the 
thought  of  leaving  the  girl  the  next 
morning  and  never  seeing  her  again 
was  almost  unendurable.  He  went 
below  immediately  after  dinner  and 

tried  to  sleep — anything   to    pass    the 
203 


time.  But  he  could  not  sleep,  and 
went  through  a  very  creditable  amount 
of  mental  pain,  considering  his  capaci- 
ties and  the  unheroic  role  he  had 
adopted. 

"I'm.  behaving  like  a  scoundrel," 
he  told  himself,  "but  I'll  be  blessed  if 
I  see  any  other  way  out  of  it.  If  I 
tried  to  explain  to  her,  and  she  looked 
at  me,  I'd  be  lost." 

It  was  some  slight  satisfaction  to 
him  to  see  that  he  looked  ill. 

What  he  wanted  was  Araby.  He 
couldn't  have  her  without  forfeiting 
not  only  his  liberty  and  his  pecuniary 
comfort,  but  also  the  determination, 
which  had  grown  with  his  growth, 

never  to  marry  a  woman    in    the    re- 

204 


motest  danger  of  insanity.  It  was 
absurd,  the  strength  of  his  love  for 
the  girl.  She  bowled  him  over  com- 
pletely, made  fiddle-strings  of  his 
nerves,  and  could  wind  him  round  her 
finger,  when  he  was  with  her.  But 
once  away  from  her  and  the  places 
associated  with  her,  he  would  be  all 
right.  He  told  himself  this,  but  it 
changed  nothing.  He  was  wretchedly 
unhappy;  he  had  never  been  so  un- 
happy before.  It  was  unbearable,  he 
told  the  unsympathetic  Joe  C. ;  and  it 
was. 

At  about  five  the  steward  brought 
him  a  book,  with  Miss  Winship's  com- 
pliments. The  note  within  it  was 

short: 

205 


Allegra  says  that  I  am  a  fool  to  believe 
you;  that  you  do  not  wish  to  marry  me. 
Is  she  right?  I  know  you  love  me,  but  you 
must  tell  me  in  so  many  words  whether  I 
have  misunderstood  you. 

ARABY  WINSHIP. 

Yelverton  rose  and  swore.  So  they 
had  been  talking  it  over!  The  girl 
was  impossible.  Who  ever  heard  of 
a  girl  writing  such  a  note?  Yet  he 
kissed  the  paper  frantically — then  threw 
it  out  of  the  port-hole.  It  was  another 
chance.  He  tore  a  sheet  out  of  his 
memorandum  book  and  scribbled  on 
it: 

God  knows  I  love  you  with  all  that  is  de- 
cent of  me.  But  I  can't  marry  you.  I  shall 
never  marry  anyone.  Forgive  me. 

P.  Y. 

He    sent  the  note  in   another  book. 
206 


Afterward  he  lay  down  and  wished 
he  might  die.  If  the  steamer  would 
only  go  faster !  A  man  can  distract 
himself  in  a  big  city.  She  had  the 
note  now — she  had  read  it — she —  He 
buried  his  face  in  his  pillow. 

Araby  read  the  message  quietly, 
out  on  the  forward  deck.  Then  she 
tore  it  up  and  dropped  the  bits  into 
the  writhing  foam  under  the  prow. 

They  were  due  at  Hoboken  the  next 
morning  at  ten  o'clock.  The  voyage 
was  over;  everything  was  over. 

The  girl  sat,  her  chin  in  her  hand, 
her  wide,  dry  eyes  fixed  on  the  sun- 
set into  which  she  seemed  to  be  fly- 
ing. She  looked  like  some  uncanny 
207 


figurehead,  a  figurehead  of  ill-omen. 
And  she  did  not  move  until  the  first 
bugle-call  for  dinner  startled  her. 
Then  she  went  and  dressed.  It  was 
the  captain's  dinner,  an  unusually 
long,  unusually  bad  repast,  ending 
with  speeches  and  illuminated  ice- 
cream. Yelverton  did  not  appear. 

At  last  it  was  over.  As  they  reached 
the  deck  Araby  left  Mrs.  Copeland, 
to  whom  she  had  not  spoken  during 
dinner,  and  went  up  to  Yelverton, 
who  was  smoking  by  the  rail. 

"Thanks  for  your  note,"    she   said. 

He  groaned.  "There's  no  use  in  my 
trying  to  explain — but  you  may  pity 
me." 

"Pity  you?" 

208 


Yet,  truly,  he  was  to  be  pitied,  pos- 
sibly more  than  she. 

"Yes,"  he  answered.      "Please   go." 

She  looked  at  him  for  a  second. 
"You  think  that  I  don't  understand," 
she  said,  slowly,  "but  I  do.  It  is  not 
your  fault." 

"Then  in  heaven's  name,  whose  fault 
is  it?" 

She  laughed  a  little.     "Allegra's." 

"It  isn't  her  fault.  She  is  perfectly 
innocent.  Please  go,"  he  repeated, 
turning  his  face  from  the  passers-by 
to  the  sea. 

"Yes,  I'm  going."  And  she  left  him, 
going  to  her  cabin. 

Mrs.    Copeland    joined    him    shortly 

afterward,  a  cigarette  between  her  lips. 
209 


"Oh,  what  ails  you?    Seasick?" 

"No." 

"Ah,  then  it's  conscience.  Have  you 
seen  Araby?" 

"Yes.  She  tells  me  that  you  have 
been  meddling.  In  God's  name,  what 
was  it  to  you?"  He  turned  on  her 
fiercely,  and,  before  she  could  answer, 
left  her. 

She  was  a  little  frightened.  She 
loved  making  mischief,  though  she 
was  not  malicious;  she  detested  being 
found  out.  Araby  was  a  clumsy  idiot 
to  reveal  her  part  in  the  affair.  Araby 
might  have  known  that  she  meant 
well.  She  only  hoped  neither  of  them 
would  tell  Bax-Drury. 

She  walked  for  an  hour  with  a  man 


2IO 


she  had  discovered  that  morning, 
played  cards  for  another  hour,  then 
walked  again.  Araby  was  nowhere 
about,  and  Schimmelbusch  was  look- 
ing for  her.  He  had  the  wishbone  of 
a  hazel-hen  for  her  as  a  keepsake. 

Mrs.  Copeland  began  to  yawn.  The 
fat  woman  insisted  on  exchanging 
cards  with  her.  The  girl  from  Rock 
Island  wanted  her  picture.  Then  the 
lightship  appeared  far  off,  low  down 
against  the  horizon.  The  crowd  drew 
to  the  rail.  Mrs.  Copeland  watched 
for  a  moment,  and,  having  found  it 
like  any  other  light,  walked  round 
to  the  other  side,  with  a  view  to  get- 
ting into  her  cabin  without  tiresome 
good-nights. 


Yelverton  came  out  as  she  appeared. 
She  stopped,  and  he  came  up  to  her, 
his  face  white,  his  hair  ruffled. 

"Where  is  she?"  he  said,  roughly. 
"I  can't  do  it.  I've  got  to  tell  her. 
Go  and  fetch  her." 

"You  mean  Araby?"  she  stam- 
mered. 

"Yes.    Send  her  to  me  here." 

"I  won't.  I  don't  believe  you'd 
make  her  happy."  She  was  really 
frightened  and  conscience-stricken. 

Someone  passed,  and  he  drew  nearer 
to  her,  laying  his  hand  on  her  arm. 
"Come,  be  kind  to  me.  I've  had 
enough  of  this." 

There  was  a  whirr  of  skirts,  a 
hurry  of  footsteps,  a  flash  in  the  light 


212 


from  the  saloon  window;  then,  an 
instant  later,  someone — a  woman — 
leaped  over  the  rail,  down  into  the 
coil  of  waters. 

There  was  a  splash,  a  cry.  At  the 
same  moment  Allegra  Copeland  fell 
heavily  to  the  deck. 

"  She  has  stabbed  me ! "  she  screamed. 

Yelverton  asked  no  question.  He 
understood  all  the  truth.  Silently  he 
let  them  carry  the  wounded  woman 
into  her  cabin;  silently  he  watched 
the  throwing  of  the  explosive  buoy, 
its  lurid  receding,  the  lowering  of  the 
boat.  He  heard  the  regular  splash  of 
the  oars,  felt  the  throb  of  the  engines  as 
they  were  reversed.  He  heard  someone 

saying  with  a  strong  German  accent : 
213 


"Only   a   slight   flesh   wound.       She 


is  conscious." 


Bax-Drury  came  out  of  the  cabin, 
half-fainting,  and  leaned  over  the  rail 
beside  him. 

"No  use,"  he  said,  thickly.  "Araby 
was  sucked  under  immediately.  They 
always  are." 

Yelverton  nodded. 

The  boat  was  coming  back;  the 
buoy,  miles  away,  went  out;  the  ship 
was  still.  Something  soft  touched 
Yelverton's  cheek.  He  put  up  his  hand 
to  the  mute  caress  of  sympathy.  It 
was  Joe  C. 

FINIS. 


Jfawcett 


THE   VULGARIANS 

IN  this  story  the  author  has  achieved 
the  best  expression  of  his  genius.  Par- 
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real  before  the  reader,  and  not  only  real, 
but  lovable  as  well.  The  story  is  at  once 
ingenious  and  simple,  entertaining  and 
profound.  It  is  a  most  valuable  picture 
of  American  life,  drawn  from  facts,  and 
must  stand  as  an  important  contribution 
to  literature. 

Washington  Post. — "Tells  of  a  family  from  the 
West  who  already  had  money  enough  to  make  them 
comfortably  happy,  and  when  unexpected  fortune 
dropped  down  upon  them,  were  awed  with  their  own 
importance  and  felt,  as  all  newly  rich,  that  they  must 
necessarily  make  a  splurge.  The  book  relates  a  story 
very  common  in  this  country,  and  is  entertaining. ' 

Pittsburg  Dispatch. — "  He  has  painted  for  us,  too, 
his  ideal  of  a  social  heroine  (a  New  York  woman,  of 
course)  who  is  not  a  vulgarian  of  either  the  Western 
or  the  Eastern  type. " 

New  York  Sun. — "  In  New  York  they  (the  vulgar- 
ians) fared  better,  and  the  reader  may  be  interested 
in  observing  how  its  civilizing  influence  transformed 
them,  and  how,  with  the  assistance  of  a  charming 
woman,  they  were  steered  clear  of  many  pitfalls." 

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MISS    SYLVESTER'S 

MARRIAGE 

v 

MlSS  SYLVESTER,  the  niece  of  a 
society  leader  in  New  York,  has  some  of 
the  wild  blood  of  the  South  American  Span- 
iard in  her  veins,  and  she  is  fascinated  by 
Count  Geraldina,  a  daring  adventurer,  who 
claims  to  be  worth  millions  as  the  beneficiary 
of  a  pearl-fishery  concession.  The  story  of 
their  sensational  marriage  and  its  strange 
results  is  told  with  great  realism  and  admir- 
able art. 

Philadelphia  Press.— "  An  uncommonly  inter- 
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way." 

N.  Y.  Press.— "A  clever  tale,  clothed  in  good 
English." 

Globe-Democrat.—"  The  story  is  enjoyable." 

Courier- Journal.—"  A  clever  and  readable  novel. '» 

Providence  Telegram.— -"A  welcome  addition  to 
the  library." 

St.  Paul  Dispatch.— "A  clever  tale  .  .  .  told 
with  realism  and  art." 

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PERKINS,  THE  FAKEER 

An  Amusing   Travesty  on  Reincarnation 

A  YANKEE,  after  long  residence  in 
the  East,  has  become  an  adept  in  magi- 
cal arts,  and  on  his  return  to  America 
amuses  himself  by  occult  pranks  that 
involve  innocent  persons  in  appalling 
dilemmas.  The  author's  humor  is  dis- 
tinctive and  unfailing;  the  plot  is  ab- 
sorbing. The  book  does  not  contain  a 
dull  line  or  a  sad  one. 

New  York  Sun. — "  The  reader  may  be  assured 
that  he  will  be  amused  and  entertained. 

New  York  American. — "More  than  witty  and 
more  than  weird,  while  it  combines  both  these  qual- 
ities and  many  more." 

Philadelphia  Record. — "Cleverly  told,  and  the  vol- 
ume capably  enacts  its  allotted  r&le  of  furnishing 
light  entertainment  for  the  reader. " 

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Town  Topics. — "  I  hailed  them  with  joy  for  their 
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"THE  WIDOW" 
IN  THE  SOUTH 

;  A  PHENOMENAL  BOOK."—V.  O.  Picayune 


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South  would  be  to  have  every  man,  woman  and 
child  in  the  country  read  this  charming  work.  The 
author's  style  flows  as  pellucid  as  a  piney  woods 
brook,  all  the  clearer  for  the  shining  sand  and  humor 
at  the  bottom." — New  Orleans  Picayune. 

' '  Written  with  a  breezy  cleverness  that  will  well 
repay  perusal." — Richmond  Times-Dispatch. 

"A  good  work,  written  by  a  woman  who  evidently 
has  brains  as  well  as  sympathies." — Globe-Democrat. 

"'The  Widow'  writes  honestly,  without  heat  or 
prejudice,  but  as  she  is  and  has  been  a  practical 
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A  Puritan  Witch 

o#  Romantic  Love  Story 

By    MARVIN     DANA 


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the  best  fiction:  action  that  is  essential  and  vigorous,  senti- 
ment that  is  genuine  and  pure,  a  plot  that  is  new  and  stir- 
ring, a  setting  that  is  fitting  and  distinctive.  The  artistic 
conception  of  the  story  happily  unites  realism  and  romance. 
The  reader's  interest  is  aroused  in  the  first  chapter ;  it  is 
increased  steadily  to  the  climax  of  a  happy  ending. 


New  York  Times  Saturday  Renew  of  Books. — "A  lively,  warm-blooded,  eager 
girl." 

New  York  Herald. — "  He  has  drawn  his  jealous  woman  with  considerable 
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Edgar  Saltus  in  Arev>  York  American. — "  Both  (Nathaniel  Hawthorne  and 
Mr.  Dana)  have  produced  that  little  shiver  which,  in  literature,  Victor  Hugo  said,  is 
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Boston  Globe. — "  A  book  of  rare  quality  and  absorbing  interest." 

Brooklyn  Eagle. — "  A  love  story  of  rare  tenderness  and  simplicity.  .  .  . 
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Chicago  Tribune. — "A  simple  love  idyll.  .  .  .  Power  gives  way  to  pathos 
and  passion  melts  the  barriers  of  prudishness,  clearing  a  path  to  happiness." 

Tomn  Topics. — "  First  and  last  a  love  story,  and  its  truth  belongs  to  the  present 
as  well  as  the  past." 

St.  Louis  Mirror. — "  Essentially  original  and  thoroughly  readable.  ...  A 
book  that  should  prove  welcome  to  fastidious  fiction-readers." 

Pitlsburg  Dispatch. — "  A  tragedy  of  intense  interest.     .     .     .     Thrilling  told." 

The  Literary  World. — "Although  the  sympathies  of  the  reader  are  with  the 
persecuted  heroine,  and  her  trials  and  tribulations  at  the  hands  of  the  witch-finders, 
and  although  the  method  of  her  escape  is  one  of  the  bist-contrived  episodes  known 
in  fiction,  yet  the  most  absorbing  bit  in  the  book  is  the  analysis  and  development  of 
the  character  of  Anna,  the  mischief-maker  of  the  tale." 


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AUTHOR    OF    "MISS   VANDELEUR,    PIRATE" 


THE 
CAREER  OF  MRS.  OSBORNE 

A    SATIRE 


_L  HIS  novel  narrates  the  adventures  of 
two  charming  young  women  who  escape 
from  tiresome  country  relations  and  take 
an  apartment  in  London  under  the  fictitious 
chaperonage  of  MRS.  OSBORNF.  Their  es- 
capades, their  many  devices  to  avoid  detec- 
tion, and  their  final  disposition  of  MRS. 
OSBORNE,  are  highly  diverting. 


BY   HAT  ABU  JONBS 
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